


Traverse

by Aurënfaie (Aurenfaie)



Series: Travail [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Action/Adventure, Anal Fingering, Angst, Blood and Gore, Consent Issues, Death, Disturbing Content, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Drama, Ghosts, Insanity, M/M, Medical, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Possession, Post-Here Lies the Abyss, Threesome - M/M/M, Wild Speculation About the Anderfels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurenfaie/pseuds/Aur%C3%ABnfaie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following Here Lies The Abyss, Hawke leads his team to Weisshaupt. Unfortunately, the Anderfels is a treacherous country. The desert may be more dangerous than the missing Wardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Errand Boys

**Author's Note:**

> A giant thank you to [unwizard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unwizard) for reading this over for me! You've saved everyone from a lot of mistakes. 
> 
> This is the third and possibly final installment of this series. It's been haunting me through all of NaNoWriMo. I thought I was going to post it all as one giant fic, but I've decided it might be best to break it up into three parts and make it all a bit easier to read.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio reunites and picks up a job.

When all was said and done and he came tumbling out of the Fade, Hawke knew he wouldn’t catch a break any time soon.

After sharing a victory drink with Varric and the rest of the Inquisition, he packed up his staff and armor and headed north on the Imperial Highway. A small unit of Inquisition soldiers accompanied him as far as Val Royeaux, leaving him to finish the trek to Val Chevin alone. As beautiful as the Orlesian countryside was, he let it drift past his eyes with little thought. His lovers were waiting for him ahead, and they pressed harder at his mind and heart than any number of golden fields and quaint cottages could. 

The port city of Val Chevin might have reminded him a bit of Kirkwall, were it not for the marked nobles tittering about and the distinct lack of urine scent in the streets. Even Hightown had nothing on these Orlesian slums. As Hawke entered the city early one morning, he watched as teams of boys and girls sweep the streets down with push brooms while fishermen and bakers set up shop along the docks. Drainage channels ran along either side of the main streets, clearing away most signs of the night’s drunken conduct.

Those of higher class seemed to reside in the elevated parts of the city, and crossed over the slums on bridged walkways. The carved stone of the railings depicted Andraste, Laurel’s Prophet, and a mix of other noble imagery. The narrow roof above met at the corners with ornate wyvern carvings perched like cats.

Hawke made a point of staying away from those walkways. He only had need of supplies here, and didn’t want to cause a commotion. As unlikely as it was that someone would recognize him, there were plenty of Orlesian nobles promenading High Town parties before he’d left, and he’d hate to run into a familiar face.

The more impoverished parts of the city gave him access to more than he could possibly need. Being a port, plenty of other nations traded there. As the sun rose into the sky, he wandered the market stands. All manner of fruit and vegetable and meat spilled out from crates and hung on hooks. Winter was descending on Orlais, and as such much of the produce displayed had traveled from further north. Local apples were plentiful enough this time of year though, and Hawke purchased a sack of them in hopes of putting Fenris in a good mood before explaining what their future held. For Anders, he collected an assortment of sweet pastries, some filled with fruit, others with a paste made from nuts and spices.

Along with other foods and coats he estimated to fit his companions, Hawke’s most important purchase was a plain metal flask filled with oil. When he asked a perfumer if she knew where he might find massage oil, she giggled behind her hand and lifted a shallow crate onto the table. It was filled with bottles and flasks of all sorts. With a gloved finger, she pointed out the various scents and benefits of each.

A few she highlighted as perhaps not being suitable to Hawke’s purposes, as they were overly scented and tended to sting one’s insides. Hawke flushed and tapped his finger on the lid of one she’d highlighted as “warming.” Indeed, it had a soft and sweet scent that reminded him of the spicy oil Fenris sometimes rubbed into his calluses. It was expensive, but the flask would be enough to last them until they returned to a city.

Glad he’d elected to trade his lame mount for the heavyset draught mare offered by the Inquisitor, Hawke loaded his purchases up on the beast’s broad back and rode out of the city.

 

* * *

 

Anders and Fenris had been staying in an inn not far outside of the city for the better part of two months. They’d elected for somewhere cheap and unassuming so as to protect Anders’ identity. Fenris fetched food and found odd jobs, and Anders rarely left but at night. It was an agonizingly boring existence for the both of them. 

Hawke had left them before dawn with a pile of coins and a simple note telling them to wait at the inn until he returned. He’d taken care of a month’s rent, they found when Fenris asked the innkeeper where his friend had gone. Naturally the both of them were upset, but with no means of tracking him down, they were forced to stay put.

From time to time, they’d sneak out of the inn through the window and wander the countryside. Anders kept his hood up, lest someone recognize him for his deeds. It was unlikely that anyone would know him for his face, but they could not afford to have an army of Templars come crashing down on them.

At first, their long walks were largely silent. Of their trio, Anders and Fenris were the most awkward together. Old arguments had fallen to the side along with Kirkwall’s Chantry. Now there were only long looks and silent recriminations.

In time, the silence fell away to quiet conversation. They were never particularly long or deep conversations, always skirting on the edge of flippant and trivial, but it was an improvement nonetheless. Justice rarely made appearances anymore, and indeed seemed to have loosened his hold on Anders’ mind. That alone was enough to encourage some level of comfort from Fenris.

As their conversations grew, so did their intimacy. It was odd without Hawke around to consider, but they quickly found that sex could stave off boredom and kept them from getting too irritated in their confinement.

Without Hawke to soothe their tempers, they were far from perfect. Fenris would bite too hard and manhandle Anders as he pleased. Anders once tried to pin Fenris to the sheets, spurring such a panic that Fenris half phased through the bed before Anders realized his mistake. From time to time they would still snap at one another, heated arguments earning the ire of the other patrons. Still, with all of their flaws, they’d tumble into bed after a few days of attempting to ignore one another in their small world and everything would be forgiven.

All the same, Hawke’s sudden return to the inn was much appreciated.

He was met with harsh lips and fingers digging into his side, overlapping demands as to where he’d been and what he’d been doing, followed by soft caresses confirming that he had indeed returned. 

Just as Hawke had hoped, his lovers were quickly distracted with reacquainting themselves with his body. Explanations were allowed to wait in favor of tactile conversation.

The three of them pressed together into the narrow bed Fenris and Anders had shared since Hawke left and introduced him to their new form of cooperation.

To say Hawke enjoyed when his lovers surrounded him, filled him, reminded him what he’d left behind, was an understatement. Anders’ long fingers ran along his hips and back. Fenris commanded his lips and sank his teeth into the meat of Hawke’s shoulder. They worked him open, shared his attention, shared his body. Familiar patterns traced across his skin, all breathing a contented sigh of "I missed you."

Then the bed was shaking, the room rattling with the force of them.

When they’d mostly sated their need for one another, the blushing innkeeper’s son brought up a metal bathing tub. He was quick to fill it and left before they could say anything else; he’d dealt with the mysterious men renting the room long enough not to ask any questions.

As soon as the lad was gone, Anders set about warming water. His bare arm dragged through the water, swirling it, heating it with a subtle spell he’d learned as an apprentice in the Circle. Anyone old enough to learn magic was old enough to heat his own bath.

With room for only one in the tub, Hawke climbed in first to clean away his travels. He sunk in until his head hooked over the edge of the basin, and his knees were forced up over the far side. It was far from the comfort he’d enjoyed at Skyhold, which held a fleet of Orlesian tubs sent in by nobles after some to do at Halamshiral, but he’d not had his most beloved company there. His arm extended out and back to trail along the hard line of Anders’ hip, and he tipped his head to the side to give the blond a smile. Anders, clad only in his unlaced trousers, kneeled by the head of the tub and ran his fingers over the span of Hawke’s shoulders. His presence was of greater comfort than the hot water filling the tub. Oh, how Hawke had missed his men.

“Have I said it’s good to be back?”

“Not yet,” Anders murmured and brushed Hawke’s cheek with his lips. “And don’t think I’ve forgiven you just yet.”

“Yes,” came Fenris’ low rumble as the elf draped himself over the foot of the tub. His white hair was a mess, pulled in all directions by needy hands, but he looked more content than he had since Hawke vanished in the night. A small, easy smile pulls at the corners of his lips, making him look much younger than his assumed near forty years. “You owe us an explanation.”

Hawke could feel Fenris’ dark hand wading through the water and down his leg. The hand dove deeper and traced the line of his thigh and hip. Fenris gave him gentle strokes and Hawke let his lids droop. Those talented fingers soothed his aching muscles and gave his most sensitive parts the most fleeting and teasing attention.

Only when a finger started to press into his loosened entrance did his eyes open again.

“Can it... _oh_ ,” he started, but Fenris’ dedicated touch dragged over his sensitive insides. Calluses brushed through him, making his hips jerk. His cock made a feeble attempt to stir, but instead pulsed lamely against his balls. It was too much too soon his body decided, even as he shifted his hips to give Fenris better access. Still, the gentle prodding made him twitch and groan. “Can it wait until your finger is somewhere else?" 

“I’m making sure you’re clean.” The finger curled and dragged outward, pulling leftover oil and Anders’ seed with it. When it pushed back in, a second followed, and water with it. “You’re dirty.” Fenris’ husky tone made him clench and seriously consider trying to work some sort of magic on his cock. It would be worth it to go another round.

Anders’ chuckle swallowed the following moan. He scooped water into his hand and spilled it over Hawke’s arm. “You _are_ dirty,” he said, pressing a kiss to Hawke’s temple. “Very dirty.”

Fingers twisted deeper into him, causing Hawke to cry out and buck. Water sloshed out of the tub as he jolted up to grab Fenris by the wrist. For a moment, he held him there, hips flexing gently. His body wasn’t ready for another go yet, but it was hard to deny that this felt amazing. Perhaps too amazing. 

“Shit, just…” Hawke guided the hand away from him, hissing a quiet whine when water washed into him. “If you want me to explain, I’m going to need my head on straight.”

The look his lovers shared was beyond disconcerting. Had they always been able to share thoughts through locked eyes alone? Perhaps it had been a bad idea to leave them here. Each alone was difficult enough to handle, and now that they seemed to share a silent camaraderie, they were downright devious.

He pushed his very recent memories of Anders and Fenris working together to the back of his mind in favor of detailing his time with the Inquisition. They’d have plenty of time to flesh out the story later, so for now Hawke kept his tale simple.

Yes, he’d met the Inquisitor. Yes, Varric was there. Yes, Cullen really was leading the army, and no, he was no longer the Templar asshole Anders remembered from Kirkwall. They’d fought at Adamant and lost many. He fell into the Fade and killed a bunch of spiders--at this he held up his hand in a silent request to continue, in spite of the share looks of horror on Anders’ and Fenris’ faces. He couldn't blame them; he'd been horrified himself.

He went on to explain that the Grey Wardens of Orlais had started all of this because they were all hearing the Calling and wanted to put up a fight while they still had the numbers for it. This was not a Blight, he assured them both, but a trick orchestrated by Corypheus with the help of a fear demon.

At this, both Hawke and Fenris looked to Anders. The mage looked puzzled and shook his head.

“I haven’t heard it. I wonder if Justice has anything to do with that.” The spirit was seldom loud enough to be heard in Anders’ thoughts lately. He had assumed that Justice got what he wanted and was now dormant, but he supposed now that it was just as likely that the spirit was busy keeping the demon at bay. All prodding at Justice proved fruitless; he would not awaken without good reason.

“As far as the Inquisition knows only the Wardens in Orlais have heard the Calling, but you have been in Orlais all this time…” Hawke sighed and rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his palm.

“In any case, we need to go to Weisshaupt.” He paused to let this news sink in, then cleared his throat and carried on. “The Inquisition hasn’t been able to get hold of the First Commander. What Wardens are left in Orlais have pledged themselves to the Inquisition. They have nowhere else to go.”

“Is it possible Weisshaupt is unaware of what was happening to its Wardens?” Fenris asked, eyes locked on Anders.

“Possible, yes,” Anders admitted. “Weisshaupt has mostly left the Grey Wardens to the control of their Warden-Commanders. Still, wouldn’t the Warden-Commander in Orlais send word to the First Commander before taking action?”

“Leliana, the spymaster, was wondering the same thing.”

“So we are to be errand boys and go to Weisshaupt?” Fenris folded his arms, but did not look entirely displeased. Clearly boredom had gotten to the best of him, and any activity was welcome. 

“Someone has to do it. Might as well be us.”

Anders sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Back to errand boys, then.”

 

* * *

 

Following the Imperial Highway west and then north, they made good time. Going north through Nevarra and the Imperium would be faster and safer, but none would risk bringing Fenris back into his home country.

So long as they stuck to the elevated road, there was little contact with wild animals and bandits. Traders passed through easily, and they stopped from time to time to buy supplies and ask for news.

When night fell, they’d hike down the steps off of the highway and would rest in one of the many towns built up along it. Few questions were asked, as many traveled the same path and three more men were of little interest. That suited them just fine. The last thing they needed was someone prying into any of them, as their trio might actually be the most interesting thing to come through the towns if they were known.

With funds from the Inquisition and Hawke’s own swollen purse, they slept comfortably enough and lacked little in their travels. Only when they left the highway just short of Andoral’s Reach were they forced to set up their tent again and huddle together to keep warm. Even as they traveled north, the night was chilled.

Snow dusted the heads of the Hunterhorn Mountains in the distance. They would be traveling right along side those mountains soon enough, and as such made certain to gather winter supplies in Perendale. As usual, Fenris refused boots that might keep his feet from frostbite. He instead retreated into the city’s alienage to purchase bandages and an odd sort of slipper that covered the top of his feet and hooked around his heel, leaving the soles bare. The rest he would wrap with the bandages as the weather grew colder in their travels.

The coats Hawke had purchased in Val Chevin hung a bit loose on his companions, but they layered tunics beneath and strapped armor over top until they fit well enough.

They could hardly carry enough water for the entire journey to Weisshaupt, but hoped that the desert would have a few towns and wells where they could refill. The map they purchased in Perendale seemed to suggest that plenty of towns had once been in the area, but few took this route and the map had not been updated since the Blessed Age.

“This is basically useless, you know,” Anders said, tapping the map with the back of his hand. “How is it that the only map of the Anderfels we can find is so old? I can already tell you that some of these towns no longer exist.”

“No one much cares of this route.” Fenris traced his finger along their planned route. “Except the Dalish, most everyone else goes through Tevinter. Both the route through Caimen Brea and Val Dorma avoid the worst of the desert.”

“Still,” Hawke insisted, “The Dalish _do_ come this way. They might be able to help us.” 

None of them looked certain of this. They all knew that not all Dalish clans were as friendly as Merrill’s had been, and those wandering this part of Thedas were likely to avoid them entirely. Still, they had little other choice. If even a few of the towns were still standing, they would be able to approach Weisshaupt from the west and avoid Tevinter altogether.  

Out of Perendale, they rode their horses north toward the border. Plains turned to packed earth and rock, and little thrived as they pushed on. In these parts, it was difficult to tell where one nation ended and another began. Few had cause to enter this barren land. Their only company was fennecs racing through the sand, scurrying from shadows cast by orange sandstone boulders and scrub trees.

The rounded edges of hills led them up and up, a sign that they had indeed entered the Anderfels. The bleak country stood on stone far above its neighbors, and was victim to harsh suns and brutal winds. As the elevation grew, so did the desolation. For a time, they followed an old stone path heading north, but soon that too vanished. Stone slopes peaked out of the earth, sand whipping over their heads and around the travelers.

When night fell, they set up their tent beneath a cliff’s ledge. The moons reflected over the earth, revealing...nothing. They were truly alone, no fires lit up along the horizon, no trails of dust chasing packhorses.

The only noise to be heard was the occasional screams of some unknown beast, but it was far in the distance and of little concern to them. Each sounded out like the shriek of a baby, and was very disconcerting until Anders identified it as Ander wildlife. He seemed to recall birds in the distance of his childhood. It had never troubled him then, so surely it was of little concern now.

It was odd to be so isolated. They’d yet to encounter a single town or trader. No statues stuck out in the sand, no hidden stones lead them along their path. Even as they traveled around Thedas, they usually at least came by some signs of human life, even if it was ruins of old empires. Here, they may well have been the first to walk this land.

“At least there are no Templars to tear us apart,” Anders murmured into the night air, his breath billowing around him like smoke. “It's almost nice.”

Fenris and Hawke could not disagree more, and instead shuffled into the tent to keep warm.

 

* * *

 

The sun rose the next morning, and the wind with it. It seemed to push at their backs, pulling them into the desert. It kept their horses quick, but quickly wore on their stamina as they were forced to lean back into it to avoid being swept off the beasts’ backs.

Few words were spoken, the sound of the wind whipping through their hair and clothing deafened them to anything else. Anders and Fenris taught Hawke to pull his scarf up over his nose and mouth to keep debris away, but all of their eyes suffered under the harsh wind.

By midday, the wind finally slowed and they stopped to rest in the shade of a boulder. At night, the desert froze them in their sleep, but during the day the sun burned Anders’ and Hawke’s faces. Their cheeks were chapped red as the ink across Hawke’s nose, and their lips split from dry air. Of them, Fenris seemed the most hardy, though the cold nights sapped his strength and left him bundled under blankets and pressed up against Anders until morning.

Horses left with loose leads to forage for grass and weeds, the trio sat on the hard ground and passed around the freshest of their food. There was no sense in wasting by rationing it out. That which would spoil first was eaten first, and so their meals started pleasant and grew progressively blander in their travels. They enjoyed a share of Fenris’ apples and Anders’ sweets, as well as thin slices of preserved meat. Water they consumed sparingly, knowing that it could be the deciding factor between life and death out here.

As they chattered and made plans to head for the closest town as listed by their outdated map, they missed a curious young elf climbing over the far side of the boulder and perching on its ledge, watching them.

“It would be unwise to continue this way,” rang an unfamiliar voice, startling them out of their conversation.

They stared slack jawed at the elf, with his light hair and almond eyes, freckles smattering his skin, and the ornate roots of grey vallaslin across his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Thick red paint the width of a finger lined his chin and the tips of his ears. A twisted staff hung loosely from his half gloved fingers.

“Dalish,” Hawke gaped. This much was clear, though this Dalish elf was very different from those he'd seen outside of Kirkwall. He wore no light armor, instead clothed in layers of coats, some hanging off one shoulder and over one arm, others pulled tight in a high collar up to his throat. Beaded and embroidered belts hung around his hips and wrists, and the slippers he wore were very much like those Fenris has purchased in the alienage, save that they were stitched with patterns of plants and animals. Unlike Merrill, the elf did not have the strong accent associated with the Dalish, instead speaking as clearly as if he had stepped straight out of a city in the Free Marches.

The elf spoke again. “With two humans, and mages that, would you not be better off traveling through Tevinter?” The question was directed at Fenris, as the elf seemed to be otherwise ignoring the humans in the party.

“We cannot,” came Fenris’ clipped reply. The elf hummed quietly at this, seeming to understand. 

“It is not lack of love for humans that bids my warning. There are things in this desert you cannot understand.” The elf’s staff tapped against the stone, knocking sand from its surface. “If you insist on this direction, I will not send my hunters to fetch your bodies.” 

Anders seemed to finally waken from his shock. “What’s out there?”

Colorless eyes flickered to him, then back to Fenris. “There are many secrets the People keep here. It is enough to say that you should turn back and return to your kin.”

“That's not--” Anders started, but the elf grew bored of their conversation and scaled back down the far side of the rock. When Anders raced around to catch him and demand answers, there was no sign anyone had been there at all. He sighed. “The Dalish are a bit eerie, aren’t they?”

 

* * *

 

With no more guiding them than an unnerving warning from the Dalish, they continued forward. Tevinter was no more an option now than it had been before, but they knew now to be on their guard. Perhaps the desert was not so empty as it seemed.

Yet after days of travel, they encountered no more company than they had before.

Sand slowed their pace, as the horses slipped on the unsound earth. They were forced to stop regularly to check the beasts’ legs for strains. An abandoned town gave them access to water, and walls to keep the winds away, but they learned little of those who had once lived here. Most of the houses had collapsed under the weight of sand and harsh weather, and some even seemed to have charred in the summer heat.

Anders explained that it was not unusual for houses to catch on fire in the summer months. Even the glint of an uncovered nail would be enough to draw flame from parched wood. Most buildings were covered in a thick red clay at the beginning of summer, but sand wore it away by the time winter fell. It was for this reason that the houses tended to be far apart, villages spread across a few square kilometers, rather than ringing around the well in the town square. If any house caught fire, it would be difficult to spread to its neighbors. Sand would be used to smother fire, as water was too precious to waste on the flames.

The further they traveled, the quieter Anders became. They’d skirted the Anderfels before in their travels, but had not entered the heart of the nation. Now it was impossible to deny where they were. These houses, built low and solid, with wooden roofs layered with clay, could have been his from childhood. Even if they encountered no one, the empty ruins of houses brought back memories he wished to keep buried.

When Hawke stopped outside a ruined house to ask about Anders’ life in this country, Anders fell quiet and insisted it wasn’t worth talking about. It was a lifetime away and held memories that brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

He thought to his mother’s pillow, still carried with him as it had been the day he left his home. It had long since lost her scent, and he found that even her face was little more than a blur to him. The niggling thought in the back of his mind suggesting that his parents might still be alive and in the town he’d grown up in was stomped away. Even if that life had not rejected him, it held little meaning to him now.

Despite his best efforts, a flash, a memory stuck in his mind. The last time he'd seen his father, a tall pious man with broad flat palms and golden hair, the man’s face had been twisted in rage. The look he'd been given was more terrifying than any fire. His mother was curled around him like a shield, trying to douse his fury, but it was too late. The Templars from the Chantry were at their door, ready to drag him away from her forever.

No amount of pleading or insisting it was all a mistake could keep him there. When at last his mother surrendered to the will of the Templars, she’d pressed that pillow into his arms and begged him to be good.

That was the last he saw of her too, despite his efforts to return to his village. The life he had before did not want him, and had spurned him. He never could go back.

 

* * *

 

The more abandoned towns they stopped in, the more they felt they understood the elf’s warning. Little civilization survived here. Even the more intact villages had at been left to the elements long before these travelers arrived. There was nothing to be salvaged from the ruins of homes, no more than the occasional toy or wooden spoon bleached white by the sun. Blankets and clothing had all been gnawed through by animals, or had been reappropriated for nests. Light bodied fennecs and the occasional dark skinned nug hid in dresser drawers and pantries. 

“You know, if we gathered enough of these toys, we could probably trade them for a decent bottle of wine.” Ever the hoarder, Hawke was nonetheless tempted to gather up every trinket they found in the abandoned houses. Fenris and Anders had immediately shot him down of course, but he’d gotten cleverer the more houses they passed through.

Fenris licked his lips. They'd not brought any wine with them for their journey, and he found himself craving it now. Perhaps a little extra weight could be managed.

“No, Hawke,” Anders repeated. “And no, Fenris! There is no one to trade with anyway! You could carry every toy we find and they would all still be useless.” 

“We could trade them for something shiny too.” Hawke waved a dulled iron blade at him. It perhaps had been for play sparring, as it could no more cut bread than flesh.

“Well I suppose--wait, no! Put that back where you found it. Are you suddenly lacking in coin?” He pointed to the heavy leather pocket hanging from Hawke’s belt. Not only did they carry with them a portion of Hawke’s fortune from Kirkwall, but generous funds from the Inquisition. “When we find a trader, you can buy things like a normal person.”

Hawke groaned and kicked the sand as Fenris extracted the blade from his fingers and threw it far into distance. It was a shame; Fenris had wine on the mind now and would not be able to forget it easily.

In the end, only water was taken from the villages. Nothing else was worth the weight on their horses.

When they rested beside the remains of buildings at night, Hawke would divide up their meals and would boil water for them to sip and keep warm.

With Anders as melancholy was he was, Hawke found little conversation in Fenris. He instead entertained himself by watching the surly elf attempt to dote on Anders by offering him more rations and water, and by thrusting blankets roughly into the man’s arms. His bedside manner could use some work, as he at one point had the blankets pressed so firmly into Anders’ face he was sure the man couldn't breathe. The food he offered came speared on the tip of a knife, and Hawke couldn't blame the man for being wary of accepting it. Still, it was almost cute watching Fenris hover around the man he once hated so deeply.

The nights were long and bitterly cold. Each morning that greeted them grew more and more solemn. Hawke could no longer endure the pained looks Anders gave the passing houses. One night, while they refilled their water skins around the well, he suggested they make for the mountains next.

“I doubt any of the towns this way are still alive. It’s pointless to wander through the sand like this,” he explained, sealing a water skin. “It’ll be faster going on solid ground, and we can melt snow for water.”

“It’ll be colder that way,” replied Anders, even as he looked a little relieved. Beside him, Fenris seemed to be shivering just thinking about it.

“If it will speed our journey, I will not oppose.” Fenris pulled the collar of his coat up to his ears, though the long tips still stuck out in the chilled air. Like his cheeks and lips, his eyes were chapped red by the wind, but he's been fortunate to avoid the burns Anders and Hawke suffered.

In agreement, they set about arranging their supplies so that might leave early the following morning. 

Anders spread carefully packed bottles of lyrium and elfroot across the bags while Fenris took out the night’s rations and stored the rest away. Hawke was in charge of water, which he set aside in skins for Anders to treat. The horses were let out to graze on their long leads. 

After so many nights out in the desert, they ignored the now familiar wailing of beasts in the distance. The cries had become part of the evening, and were no more concern than chirping of insects in the night air. In their complacency, they failed to notice that the sounds had drawn closer each evening. Tonight however, they'd drawn in close and then trailed off into silence.

Only when one of the horses suddenly reared and brayed in terror did they notice the sand colored creatures swarming around the well.

Deadly quiet as they stalked in, their steps gave not even a whisper of movement. Once spotted, they communicated in quiet clicks and chirps, which seemed to coordinate the mass of them as soldiers.

Each about the size of a mabari, though taller with those muscled legs, they were just as intelligent as most of the men Hawke and his companions had fought. Their bodies were scaled throughout, with long grey feathers growing out from their shoulders and short arms. With beady eyes and high slit noses, it was clear that these were no day hunters, but instead creatures that relied on scent above sight in the night air.

“Phoenix!” Anders cried and snatched up his staff. He recalled now that he had indeed seen these beasts before, but only at a distance or dead. The clay painted onto the houses was mixed with herbs and wyvern venom to keep the monsters at bay. Caravans were large and guarded for this reason as well. Phoenixes would not attack such a large group, but three men alone in the desert were ideal prey. 

The phoenixes quickly set about surrounding the men and separating them from one another. A dozen or so of the feathered monsters set themselves side by side between and around them, while another few circled the mass and screeched. The creatures were so foul smelling that one might otherwise believe they were standing in a week-old battlefield. Rot filled the air, and with each horrible noise, a cloud of sulfuric breath added to the odor.

Their bobbing steps on powerful hind legs, with occasional assistance from their front legs as the crept closer, gave the distinct impression of hunters. With their sharp talons and underbit jaws made for dangerous weapons, in no time the isolated men each bore wounds.

Perhaps sensing that Hawke was somehow the “alpha” of their little pack, the phoenix’s focused their energy on downing him first while keeping his companions from aiding him. The clicking and chirping continued, and signaled when one might leap in and bite at Hawke, but soon they had him fooled and he could not predict their movements. They snapped and slashed, swinging their spiked and feathered tails at him while they took turns clawing at his body. With magic more suited for long ranged fights, Hawke could only produce barriers and hope that the blasts of fire he sent at his attackers would not singe him too badly or alight one of the houses.

Anders was little better off, producing barriers of his own and shooting ice and entropy spells at close range. If anything, the confused and terrified creatures became even more dangerous as they stumbled into one another and began to bite wildly at the air, caring not what they managed to catch between their jaws. A few quick blasts of energy sent the creatures back a bit, enough at least to keep their teeth away from Anders’ unarmored body, but that space was hard kept.

He struggled his way closer to Hawke, but for every phoenix he managed to wound, another would leap into place and bite at his staff. From where he fought, he could see the man was entirely overwhelmed, and as he made a valiant attempt to freeze a few of the beasts, he hoped that Fenris was having better luck than he was.

For his part, Fenris was indeed having an easier time of it. Something about him, perhaps the pervasive smell of lyrium, made the beasts anxious and they kept further back from him than they did from the mages. Even with his long blade, he often found he could not even reach the phoenixes, let alone come in contact with anything vital. It was a maddening dance. While he could lunge forward and earn a quick hit on whatever creature was closest by, he’d yet to deal a fatal wound. Snapping teeth at his sides would force him back, giving him little progress.

Frustrated, Fenris activated his brands and shot forward. The boost in speed granted by his tattoos was enough to catch the monsters off guard. His blade sunk deep into the chest of one, and carried onto into the shoulder of a second. A dark river of blood poured down the length of the sword and seeped through the joints of his gauntlets. He pried the weapon free and swung again, this time at the phoenixes separating him from Hawke.

Unfortunately, as he charged the beasts, one leapt back and crashed into Hawke. The burly mage stumbled under its weight and tumbled to the ground. Almost immediately the swarm was on him. Hawke yelled in pain as teeth sunk into his thigh and he swung his staff out to physically strike any thing that got too close. A phoenix was knocked away with a piteous cry, its ribs cracked against Hawke’s mighty attack.

Fenris rushed his way through the horde, swinging his blade wildly and phasing through parts of the creatures, only to solidify and take with him chunks of flesh. His desperation was enough to fell two or three phoenixes, and brought him to Hawke’s side. He stood over the man, one foot on either side of his hips to protect him the way a bitch might her pups. 

The creatures shrieked at him, upset that their easy prey was now protected again. Hawke was all the more grateful to have room to breathe again, even as his thigh throbbed. His hand pressed over the bite wound. These creatures had venomous fangs, it would seem. Blood seeped out in from a perfect crescent of punctures, coating his trembling fingers.

 _What a horrible way to go_ , he thought to himself as he dragged his legs under him and stood with the help of his bladed staff. _Good thing we’re going to kill these things and get out of here, right?_ Even in his head, he didn’t sound certain. A man could only escape so many close calls before he met his doom.

Voice rough and shaking with pain, Hawke called out, “Now would be a good time for Justice!” 

“I don’t know where he is!” came Anders’ own panicked response. While generally pleased to be left alone with his own thoughts, hollow though they seemed without the presence of a greater power, Anders had tried many times to lure Justice back into the open. No promises of righteousness nor harm would bring back that familiar voice. In many ways, this left him empty and fragile, a fraction of the man he’d been ever before he’d shared his body with Justice.

The spirit was not likely to appear unless Anders himself was dying, and even then he couldn’t be sure Justice would save him. The spirit had done little when he’d been leaning over the cliff some months earlier, after all. For all their friendship and years together, Anders wondered if Justice had become so corrupted that he would not save his host. Perhaps Justice was too exhausted to do anything.

Knowing they would not be able to fight off all of these beasts, it occurred to Anders that he might scare them off the way they did with deepstalkers. Granted phoenixes were much larger, but they would not be familiar with unnatural lights and sounds after wandering such a barren desert for so long. Anders gathered his mana together and shot a burst of light into the air, shortly after accompanied by a bolt of lightning, which let out a deafening crack. Sand from one horizon to the other was lit in a torrid glow, fanning hot air and a horrible roaring and cracking noise down on them.

For all the good the light may have done, it also temporarily blinded every living thing in the near proximity. Anders shielded his eyes with his arm, but not in time to avoid the white overwhelming his senses. A phoenix stumbled sideways into him while another spun and caught the back of his legs with its barbed tail. He sprawled face first into the sand while the blind creatures staggered around above him.

This was enough to startle away a good many of the creatures, which bolted blindly away into the night. The stampede of scaly bodies crashed into the now barely standing Hawke. The man had managed to pull himself up to stand back to back with Fenris, but now the crash of bodies propelled him back into the ground.

Long talons shredded through the leather of his jerkin and cut into his flesh. One of the many claws caught under his breastplate. As the creature flailed to free itself, it dug deep into Hawke’s chest and the man shouted and flailed. 

Fenris might not have seen the attack, but he felt Hawke’s weight fall against his back and then to the ground. With no one to obstruct his movement, Fenris gave his sword a mighty swing across his front and back. He cut the phoenix away, but his eyes were blurry from Anders’ light. He could not see where Hawke fell. Unsure how many of the beasts lingered nearby, Fenris ignited his brands and let loose a horrible shout. What the sudden light did not frighten away, Fenris’ following animalistic roar did. The last of the creatures leapt away to circle from a distance.

Anders stumbled forward, already feeling exhaustion rushing over him. His eyesight slowly returned, giving view to the mangled bodies of the phoenixes left behind and Hawke curled and moaning on the ground.

As Hawke’s injuries registered in his mind, he pushed back all thoughts of resting and dashed to the man’s side. Fenris was already there, Hawke’s head in his lap, patting his cheek, trying to keep him alert. They’d all survived enough wounds to know the drill. Don’t let anyone pass out, and never get in the healer’s way. 

“Hawke, where does it hurt?” Anders asked. Perhaps this seemed a foolish question, but he wanted to keep the man talking, wanted him indicating he could feel anything well enough to direct him. In the absence of a coherent response, his hands trailed over the torn leather feeling for wounds. At length, Hawke gurgled in pain and swept his shaking hand over the bite on his leg. Anders’ eyes widened.

“Venom,” he murmured, his body growing numb with dread. Blood loss or infection would surely kill Hawke, but the venom would do the job much more unpleasantly. With a few deep breaths, he moved his hand back to the gash along Hawke’s front. His unoccupied hand pressed down where the thigh met the pelvis. _Prioritize_ , he told himself. _He’ll bleed out before the venom can kill him. Slow the bleeding, stimulate blood production, and then move to the leg._ He repeated this like a mantra as he worked. If he could slow this wound, Hawke might live long enough for the poison to be an issue. Before that, they might be able to slow the damage.

“Fenris,” Anders exhaled and refocused his thoughts. “Do you know how to suck out venom?”

The elf was absently stroking at Hawke’s hair while keeping a wary eye out for the phoenixes lurking around the abandoned houses. He made no move to touch the wounds. Best to stay out of the way so his anxiety did not distract the healer, no matter how much he would like to make himself useful. He’d do anything to protect Hawke if he could. That he’d already failed made him all the more desperate in his actions. His uncovered bicep was bleeding, as was the hole stabbed through in his foot by a hooked talon, but adrenaline and fear had dulled his pain. He seemed little worse for wear than Anders, who’d only taken a spiked tail swing to the back of his legs, leaving a ridge of swelling and bruises.

Ears perking up, Fenris let his hand still and nodded. He gently rested Hawke’s head against the ground and stumbled across the sand.

At Hawke’s side, he fell to his knees and scrambled for the bloodstained fabric of the man’s high. After cutting open the leg of Hawke’s pants, Fenris trailed his fingers over the punctures. The wounds were deep and jagged, flesh torn by snapping teeth.

Fenris ran his tongue all along the inside of his own mouth. A single cut, and he’d be just as likely to die from the venom as Hawke. Satisfied he’d not bitten his cheek in battle, he let his lips purse around one of the puncture wounds and drew the blood into his mouth. Immediately after, he spit it into the sand, trying to ignore the way the blood clumped together like the flesh of an overripe peach. The mottled mess sunk into the sand, staining it a deep, horrible red. 

Anders spared a hand from his healing to pass Fenris a water skin. Fenris poured a little onto the wound, then rinsed his mouth and spat that too onto the sand. He tried to ignore the way Hawke’s blood tasted in his mouth, copper lingering on his teeth and tongue. In this pattern, he sucked and rinsed the rest of the teeth wounds, and started again. There was little he could do just with his mouth, but it might be enough to give Anders more time. He’d gladly swallow the poison himself if it would save Hawke from death.

A horrible voice in his mind told him that the world needed Hawke far more than it needed him. His failure, after all, had turned the Champion mortal and seen him fall in battle. 

“Not dead yet,” he muttered to himself in Tevene. Swallowing would only put a greater strain on their healer. Deep breath. Focus. The battle had been unplanned, he had no way of knowing how the phoenixes would react—

_It should have been me, I should have stayed closer, I should have killed them before they got the chance—_

The damage was not irreparable yet. There was still hope.

As Fenris was about to start a third time, Anders waved his head away and flattened his palm over the wounds. “His front is bad, but he won’t bleed out for now,” he explained over Hawke’s piteous whimper. Pale faced and nervous, Fenris nodded and washed out his mouth again.

“We need to move somewhere safer,” he said in a low voice, looking out at the phoenixes inching their way closer. If they did not move, the creatures would grow bold enough to attack again, and they would be even less able to defend themselves than before.

Anders swore and cast around for the horses. His hands did not leave Hawke’s body as he poured more of his energy into pulling out phoenix venom and knitting together wounds. Fenris’ quick acting had indeed bought them time, but Anders would never have the mana to complete the healing necessary in one sitting. Infection would be a serious concern, even more so if they were forced to ride off and reopen Hawke’s wounds. 

Unfortunately, they had little other option. There were certainly more than a few dozen phoenixes in this desert, and more would be upon them if they didn’t act soon. 

“Only two,” he noted, tipping his head toward the horses. The third must have pulled loose its stake and run off. The poor beast would meet a gruesome fate in the desert alone, but they could not possibly track it down in their condition. Why the other two were left alive after the attack, Anders couldn’t be certain. Given how they’d gone after Hawke first, they seemed clever enough to know what prey could be taken down later and what needed to be handled first. Perhaps the water they carried made the travelers all the more appealing. While certainly there were oases in the country, they were few and far between. Thirst may have been fuel behind the phoenixes attack.

“Can you ride and heal at the same time?”

Anders nodded. “But I’ll be focused holding Hawke up and fixing what I can.”

They had to move on, and quickly. The longer they waited, the more the danger grew. Fenris shot a dark look at the monsters, and then crept toward the horses.

For their part, the phoenixes seemed too wary of the lyrium elf to come closer while he was still in attacking distance. They croaked and screeched from a safe distance, occasionally taking a tentative step closer the smell of blood sinking into the desert sand. The horses balked as Fenris approached them, but were eventually coaxed closer to the healer and their fallen companion with quiet words and a false promise of treats tucked into Fenris’ hand.

 _Brave beasts,_ Fenris thought.

Between Anders and Fenris, it took some work to lift the muscle-heavy Hawke up onto his massive mare. The movement jarred the man’s wounds and he groaned in pain. Blood wept through the remnants of his shirt, but he was on the horse. It was good fortune that the largest of the mounts had been one of those to remain behind, as it was better able to carry two on its back. While Fenris stood up on the tips of his toes and held Hawke by the leg and side, Anders climbed up behind him and pulled the man to his chest. Together, Fenris and Anders drew a rope around Hawke and the horn of the saddle, ensuring he’d stay upright even if Anders did not dedicate all of his attention to keeping him on the horse. The arrangement was by no means elegant, but nothing about Hawke ever was.

Anders gave one last look around their little camp and the surrounding phoenixes while Fenris gathered up the water skins and their still folded tent. He led the massive mare, ears twitching and the whites of her eyes showing, closer to his own mount. Fenris clicked quietly at the horse and held out a gentle hand until it calmed enough for him to climb onto its back.

The mage had already started his healing, Fenris noticed from the corner of his eye. Hawke was pressed back against his lean frame and Anders’ brows knit in concentration. As fragile as Anders seemed, Fenris respected that he was both able to stay on the horse and conduct a delicate magic. 

After tying the lead to his own saddle and giving Hawke one last worried look, Fenris led them away from the well and toward the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...don't try to suck poison out of snakebites or whatever. In theory, it works. In practice, you get poisoned too. 
> 
> The next part is mostly done, so expect it in the next week. The entire fic should be complete around the end of the month!


	2. Recuperating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Hawke injured, Anders and Fenris have no choice but to find somewhere to rest and recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for disturbing content, I suppose?

It was dawn before they reached the mountainside, their horses frothing with exhaustion and Anders well out of mana. The phoenixes had only given up their chase perhaps an hour or so ago, but Fenris was not so certain others would not pick up their trail.

They needed somewhere inaccessible to the wildlife, or at least defendable.

Their options were few, even as they neared the mountains. Desperate for any sort of shelter, Fenris scoured the cliffs for a cave or even an outcrop that might shield them from the wind. Snow capped the peaks above, and trailed onto the scrubby trees lower down. The Hunterhorns were smooth and steep, providing little to climb and even less to hide behind. He considered abandoning the horses so they might scale their way up one of the low cliffs and rest off of the ground, but they’d have no way of getting Hawke onto a ledge. It had been a small wonder they got the man onto a horse; a precipice was another story.

Bluffs and crags passed slowly, none providing more hope than the others. From what Fenris could tell, the mountains were sloping downwards gradually, but it would be days before they fell low enough to climb.

A few low trees dared below the mountain line, but they barely passed above his horse’s withers, and massed in tangled branches to the ground. If it came to it, they would have access to firewood and some shade, but neither did anything to stop their hunters.

The sun crept up over the horizon and Fenris could feel himself growing desperate and stupid. Surely they could fight off more monsters if they just stopped and let Hawke heal? But no, Anders could not fight and Hawke was out of commission. To make matters worse, Fenris was clearly not well equipped to handle these beasts. The only advantage they had, that the phoenixes seemed to fear bright lights and loud noises, might not last long. These were devious creatures, and would soon find nothing to fear in empty threats.

Just as setting up camp on the ground and out in the open was starting to sound like the best option, an odd patch of color ahead caught his eye. He urged their horses back into a smooth canter, though they groaned in fatigue. He’d rather sacrifice their beasts of burden than Hawke or Anders.

The patch of color grew and grew, and soon it became clear as grass and weeds. They grew up in thick patches around an abandoned fountain. Left to the tests of time, the fountain was worn and smooth and stained with an unknown moss. As he drew closer, he could see a trickle of water still bubbling up from the stone and spilling into the tiled earth. The front half of the fountain had collapsed entirely, which allowed suspiciously still flowing water into the ground. Even small bundles of elfroot and spindleweed sprouted out of the cracks between tiles here.

Puzzled, his eyes followed the trail of stone up into the mountainside, where it grew stronger and clearer until steps formed, then a great open doorway.

“Anders!” he called back to the man half dead on his mount, still trying to pull energy forth to heal Hawke’s wounds. “I see something!”

Anders lifted his head from where it rested against Hawke’s shoulder and peered blearily ahead. At first, his brows furrowed in confusion, then realization hit him. Indeed, there was a massive opening in the mountain, surrounded by carvings of animals and archers. It was carved into the steep slope of the mountain, with strong arches dug into the stone and pillars designed with an elven figure on either side of the opening. A dusting of snow clung to the upper arches, but the ground beneath was thankfully clear.

Empty braziers of metal woven together like bird nests jutted out on either side of the entrance, but as Fenris lead their horses up the path, fire sparked to life and illuminated the doorway.

Startled, Fenris paused. “Magic...but why _here_?” They’d been fortunate encounter even a few abandoned towns, but none had been so majestic as this. As far as he could tell, this part of the Anderfels was desolate and terrible, and no one would willingly build anything significant here.

“An elven temple,” Anders noted, his voice weary. “Amazing that the magic is still in place.”

Fenris frowned and cast around the area. They would find no better place to rest and heal. There was water, plant life, even shelter. As much as he wanted to turn tail at the thought of ancient magic in this place, they needed somewhere safe to tend to Hawke. Reluctantly, he slipped down from his mount and led them up the temple steps. 

His limping gait was slow, the puncture through his foot still giving him trouble, but someone needed to check the ground for traps and loose tiles. While the edges of the steps were worn and smooth, with the faint outline of flowers carved into the stone, none fell loose under his steps. It seemed that the elves had far better craftsmen in this part of Thedas than the humans. 

Anders nearly fell off his horse in a rush to tend to his passenger as they reached the landing just outside the entrance. He scrambled to untie Hawke, and together with Fenris, they guided the man down from the mare’s back.

Hawke was pale, his closed eyes sunken and dark. He’d lost consciousness, which was likely a mercy for the torment he’d endured. Anders’ hand at his pulse point confirmed his heartbeat and his breath; otherwise one might have mistaken him for dead. It was a bad sign, but that he’d survived the night gave his companions hope.

Each with an arm around Hawke’s waist, they half dragged him into the front room of the temple. No braziers lit this time, but the light of the rising sun illuminated a small room with a woven metal fire pit in its center. Mosaics of leaping stags and sure-arrowed archers lined the walls, but gave way to a dark doorway at the far side of the room. Someone had rested in this room recently, if the pile of twigs in a corner by the entrance was any indication.

Given the warning they had received upon entering the desert, Fenris had to assume that it was the Dalish who stayed here in their travels. If this was indeed one of their temples--and the more he studied the room, the more undeniable the elven figures became--perhaps the elf had wished to deceive them for the sake of their heritage. His mind suggested that perhaps the elf had been honest, and had feared the phoenixes as much as Fenris and his companions now did.

What was clear was that this desert was dangerous, and he’d never step foot in it again if he could help it.

As Anders laid out a bedroll and the better part of their blankets, Fenris held Hawke up on his own and tried to tell himself that it was his imagination that made the man lighter in his arms. He was not dead yet, after all. He was in the hands of the best healer in Kirkwall, and certainly the best in this forsaken desert. If Templars and abominations and dragons and the damned _Fade_  couldn’t take down the Champion, no gangly phoenixes ever would.

For all his fear of magic and the torment it brought to him, Fenris hoped that it would be enough as he left the mage to his work and dealt with their supplies and horses. His panic and anxious hands would only get in Anders’ way. Perhaps he could find more lyrium and elfroot squirreled away in one of the packs. At the very least, he knew they had more bandages in his own pack, though they were slim and cut roughly, as they were intended for his feet and not for a wound.

Hawke now laid out and made as comfortable as he could be in these conditions, Anders finished removing his armor and cutting away the remnants of Hawke’s jerkin. The jagged slashes in the leather made before were nowhere near enough to give him full view of the wounds, and blood had made it stiff and dark. Nearly naked atop the bedroll, Hawke seemed smaller, more fragile than he ever had before.

A sudden dread rushed over him. He’d fought at Hawke’s side for years, with Fenris at their backs, and had held the man’s life in his hands many times. Yet now, he could sincerely imagine that life slipping away. Here, there was only so much he could do. There were no other healers around to offer their strength, no shops to buy supplies, nothing to help them now.

For the first time since they’d fled the city, Anders missed Kirkwall and all of its run down, dingy, dark corners.

“Please no,” he whispered to himself, voice thick with tears. His body stung with pain as he gathered up the little mana that had restored itself in their journey into the temple. His veins burned, and again he called to Justice. Much to his surprise, Anders could feel Justice stirring. The spirit seemed restless; he could feel an unknown anxiety building in him, but Justice did not speak. At length some strength was offered, a small surge of relief in his aching veins, but little else.

 _Would you let him die?_ he begged in his head, but no more mana came. Until he felt that heart beat slowly under his own fingers, he would surely find no additional aid in Justice.  

The strength given allowed him to start healing again, but it was by no means enough to overcome the damage done. Just slowing the bleeding quickly drained him. With an agonized moan, his hands dropped. Any lyrium they’d had in their packs was swallowed down during the night’s ride. Consuming so much left him trembling and thirsty for more. Now a constant tremor ran through him and left his skull throbbing.

Anders ran his tongue over his teeth and clenched his eyes shut. This was not lyrium addiction, no, but instead something like a lyrium hangover. A hair of the dog or a little time and he’d be fine. Hawke however, would not. There was no time, and no lyrium save--

As if reading Anders’ thoughts, Fenris dropped their saddlebags and kneeled beside him.

“I…” Anders faltered. Even in his desperation, he did not know how to ask for such a thing. He studied the elf with furrows brows as he attempted to find the words. He wiped at his eyes with his arm and cleared his throat.

“There is no lyrium left. I’ve checked all the packs.” Fenris’ voice was quiet and resigned. “I gathered some herbs by the fountain, if they might be of use.”

He could not possibly offer what Anders needed, could he? And yet Anders did not need to beg; Fenris was already unhooking his gauntlets. He revealed the tanned skin of his arm, embellished with white trails of tattoo. Anders licked his lips. Even without his recent lyrium binge, those tattoos always called to him. Hawke seemed to experience the same, as the two of them would watch the elf’s naked body with reverence beyond the immediately sexual. Fenris had once said that the tattoos were for more than intimidation and attack. It seemed it drove all mages to distraction, with the call of lyrium whispering in their ears. The more Anders and Hawke spent time in Fenris’ close company, the more they could ignore the temptation to draw their tongues over the marks and touch every inch of lyrium. Still, a hint of distraction always remained.

“It is most elegant...” Fenris started, then closed his eyes, “...To draw through your fingers on the brands.” Green eyes focused on Hawke with grim determination. “For this however, your mouth would do a better job.”

Anders gaped. Fenris was offering him, a mage, the opportunity to cause the same harm Danarius had. Anders had heard the stories, seen Fenris’ reaction to magic upon his skin. He held no illusions that this would be pleasant. What he offered may be enough to save Hawke’s life, but it would surely cause Fenris excruciating pain.

Even as time was quickly forcing his hand, Anders hesitated. He was a healer, damn it all! He should be acting now, doing everything possible to knit together Hawke’s wounds and save the man’s life. And yet he was not certain he could forgive himself for the suffering he’d inflict on Fenris with this. Even a spark of magic too close would have the elf gritting his teeth for the pain it splintered through his brands. Having shared a bed with him many times, Anders knew that touch alone could be agony. A nasty voice in the back of his mind told him that drawing on Fenris would make Anders no better than Danarius himself, and for once he knew that thought was not Justice.

“This, what you offer, you offer it freely?” Anders asked. His fingers hovered hesitantly above the now naked arm. He longed to touch the tattoos from the tips of Fenris’ fingers town to his toes. That he could do so at Fenris’ bidding made it all the more tempting.

“I do.” Fenris was just as nervous at the prospect, but steeled himself and lifted his arm against Anders’ hand. His muscles were taut and trembling under Anders’ fingers, but Fenris was resolved. Any amount of torture would be worthwhile if it gave Hawke even a few more days alive. “Were there any other option, I would not. Hawke is worth more than my comfort.”

 _Comfort_ was putting it lightly, Anders soon found. As his lips pressed to exposed tattoos on Fenris’ arm and he focused on pulling the lyrium from its home and into his body, Fenris jolted. Light filled the room as his brands activated. Every inch of his body went stiff. It felt as though every cord of muscle was being played over by a bow, drawn tight and send vibrating painfully. At once he found himself unable to move by will. By reflex, fingers crooked into claws, then curled into his palm in a tight fist. It was difficult to stay on his knees beside Anders as his muscles constricted, and he swayed dangerously at the mage’s side. Every digit and limb folded closer to his core, save the arm still held in Anders’ grip.

Then the quiet cries started. They were strangled by Fenris’ tight throat and forced him to gasp for air every time they drew out of him. It was piteous to hear and made Anders flinch with every pathetic noise.

It was clear that while lyrium was being pulled out of him, Fenris had little control over his movements. Every muscle tensed, leaving him in a cage of his own body.

Guilt cut through Anders like a knife. If he let go now, he was not certain Fenris could be persuaded to allow another attempt, but the pleading whimpers Fenris made were blades in his heart. Fenris had suffered silently through all of his wounds, but this pain was so much worse. He was near begging for mercy as Anders suckled his skin and drew more and more strength from him.

Sweet, beautiful lyrium sang through Anders’ senses, and Fenris’ mouth hung open as agony washed over him.

Tongue lathing over Fenris’ tattoos, this could easily be sexual. Those whimpers could be submission, his jolting, need. Anders truly was a disgusting man if he could think that now, with Hawke desperate before him and suffering Fenris at his side.

A sudden convulsion ripped Fenris away from Anders’ smoldering lips and left him sprawled on the stone floor. A strangled sob burst from his throat and he folded inwards. Dark arms, one marred with a massive purple bruise along a mess of lyrium lines, folded over his head. His nerves were alight, as showed on the light flickering up and down his tattoos in slow burning waves. The elf’s body spasmed and he groaned, unable to do anything but curl on the floor until the ache faded.

It was terrifying to watch. Every inch of Anders told him to fix this, to take the pain that he’d caused away and bring back the stoic elf he knew. Anders extended a hand to check him over, but let it fall. He could not use any magic on the elf until he was certain Fenris’ nerves wouldn’t ignite from his touch. His hands were tied.

This entire situation was a mess.

Only Anders’ experienced healer’s mind kept things from getting worse. Years at the clinic healing the poorest of the poor taught him to categorize and conquer. He needed to close up Hawke’s chest and finish pulling venom from his veins. It had been a fight all night to keep the phoenix’s bite from progressing to his heart, and while he’d succeeded in keeping it at bay through the late hours, it would soon return to its course.

With Fenris in a panting, twitching heap beside him, Anders began the familiar pattern of healing.

As soon as Hawke’s chest had clotted up enough to leave alone for a moment, he turned to the man’s leg and purified and pulled any toxins he could find. They’d been incredibly lucky in some regards. It would seem that the phoenixes were not so terribly venomous, but their bites contained enough toxin to weaken the body considerably to the bacteria of their mouths. If left alone, the venom may indeed kill Hawke, but it was likely that infection would cause more trouble.

The herbs Fenris had gathered would do some good. Spindleweed and elfroot were used in many of his potions and poultices back at the clinic. It would not be an elegant mix, but he could chew them together and spread them across Hawke’s wounds. Their healing effects may yet stave off infection until Anders could gather enough mana to start again.

Without a doubt, he knew he’d have to draw on Fenris again. Even if Fenris did agree to allow it, and Anders had a dark feeling that he would, he could not be sure the elf would ever forgive him for the suffering he’d caused. It was necessary, yes. Still, no one had any business prodding at Fenris’ old wounds, least of all Anders.

Stitching together the wounds with magic took time. From its resting spot at the horizon, the sun followed up the open doorway and into the sky.

Fenris stirred and lifted himself from the floor. He slumped forward like all the strength in his body had been drained away, but he was upright and slowly flexing his hand. The thrum of lyrium had become bearable at last.

Once each digit curled and uncurled with ease, he cleared his throat and asked in a rough whisper, “How is he?” Each word came out impossibly strained, like they were sandpaper in his mouth.

Anders started and his head snapped to the side. “Fenris,” he breathed a sigh of relief. “I was worried about you.”

The elf certainly looked worse for wear. While the bags under his eyes were near constant, they’d only grown darker with the exhaustion of this long day. He looked only moments from toppling back into the floor, but seemed determined to keep himself upright. His bare hands clung to his awkwardly folded legs to keep him from tipping.

“It has been a long time,” Fenris reminded him with a quiet cough. “It will not be so bad next time.”

Anders’ eyes widened. “Next time?”

“It will take me some hours to recover enough to be drawn from safely,” Fenris continued, then frowned. He didn’t look so much angry as weary. The sharp turn of his brows had smoothed with fatigue, leaving him looking somehow older and more pitiful than Anders could ever recall seeing him. “You will need more from me, will you not?”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that again.”

Fenris sighed and asked again, “How is he?”

Anders let his hands rest of Hawke’s chest. Thanks to Fenris, he’d been able to stop the bleeding and draw out most of the venom. He was out of immediate danger, but infection would be a problem soon enough. Worst, Hawke had lost a lot of blood and would need time to recuperate. His immune system was weak, so Anders would have to fight for him. Infections were always tricky, and would require just as much mana was repairing flesh and muscle did.

“He’ll live, if we’re careful. For now he needs rest,” he assured the elf as he wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Anders hesitated and wet his lips. “He will need more healing than I can offer alone.”

Fenris pressed into Anders’ side and nodded. “If it can be afforded, we must rest as well.” A noble suggestion, though Fenris looked ready to fall asleep regardless of what could be afforded. It was rare that he sought out physical contact, but it seemed Anders was of comfort to him in his worn state.

Anders was little better off. He’d been casting for hours with limited rest. If he continued on like this, he might harm himself as well. As reluctant as he was to, he knew full well that he could do no good until his body had had a chance to restore itself. He looked to the open door and found he couldn’t bring himself to argue for one of them to keep watch. If something attacked them now, there would be nothing they could do about it. Perhaps the horses would give them some warning and they could retreat further into the temple. Otherwise they’d have to settle with their fates.

Lacking any argument, Anders crumpled the elfroot and spindleweed leaves and stuffed them into his mouth. Their bitter taste nearly made him gag, but he chewed them dutifully. After a nap, he might be able to make something more sanitary with water and a rock grinding the herbs. That would require more planning and a bowl, and some time to steep as well. As disgusting as it was, the chewed herbs would do some good until they had more options and energy.

As he worked, he unwrapped the bundles of bandages Fenris had found in their packs. Together the two men carefully wrapped Hawke’s wounds with a film of herbs painted between each layer. It was a mess, the height of primitive medicine. It was still better than nothing.

Hawke was settled and sleeping silently. Anders gathered the twigs from the corner of the room and dropped them into the fire pit. The last of his mana went to igniting a small fire. Warmth started to fill the room, fighting back the cold air blowing in from the doorway. It was pleasant. For a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to tell himself that this ordeal had just been a nightmare.

When he turned back to Hawke, he found Fenris curled into a ball against the man’s side. The blankets hand been spread out and drawn up so that only the elf’s ears and hair stuck out. Oddly considerate of him, sufficient blankets had been laid out on Hawke’s other side, so that they might each sleep on either side of the man. It was practical to keep Hawke in the middle, so that he would not waste energy shivering. It also gave both Anders and Fenris the means to keep an eye on him and have peace of mind knowing he was nearby and safe.

When Anders slipped under the blankets and drew his arm over Hawke’s waist, he met with Fenris’ arm already tucked around Hawke like a belt. Anders let his fingers trail down the elf’s arm until he reached his knuckles. As he shuffled into Hawke’s side, thus keeping him solidly framed from all sides, he gave Fenris’ hand a gentle squeeze. The worst was over. They could rest easy.

 

* * *

 

The sun was no longer hanging in the doorway by the time Fenris woke again. The room they occupied was surprisingly warm and he found it difficult to lift himself from Hawke’s side. Only when he remembered the horror from the previous night to he bolt upright.

His head was a muddled mess and his limbs still throbbed with soreness from being drawn on. Something told him to move them further into the temple, which he attributed to instinct. Anyone or anything traveling by could easily tell that someone was inside, and there was nowhere to hide them on the front room.

Maybe once Anders was up too, he’d suggest they take to the inner temple.

Until then, Fenris would make the most of the daylight. He rose stiffly from the makeshift bed and stretched. Every muscle ached from being strung so tight.

Once he loosened up enough to walk, he stumbled down the front steps of the temple.

The desert stretched out before him seemed infinite. Far in the distance, he could see the silhouette of animals wandering through the sand. He was glad none appeared to be Phoenixes.

In this light, with shelter at his back and the golden sun casting over endless sand, it almost seemed beautiful.

 _Almost_.

It would be more beautiful if Hawke were not crippled by his injuries and still unconscious. He would need more herbs if he was going to recover, and more healing magic too.

Fenris waded through the mess of grass and weeds growing around the fountain, idly plucking up whatever plants he recognized. Some were medicinal and would help Hawke. Others were simply edible and would supplement their supplies. They’d lost a good portion of their food with the horse that had run off and if they weren’t careful, they might run out.

As he neared the fountain, he stepped into the puddle of water sinking into the earth. It was warm, he noticed, like a tub in a bathhouse. He assumed it must be magic heating the fountain even centuries after the temple had been abandoned by its creators. How odd though, that it would persist when everything else in the desert seemed long dead.

By the time he returned to the temple, Hawke’s eyes had blurred open. The man seemed little more aware of himself than if he’d been sleeping, but it was a relief to see him awake.

Fenris helped Hawke rest on his head on the elf’s lap. After a few sips of water from a water skin, Hawke cleared his throat and offered Fenris a wobbly smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Fenris replied. The corner of his lip pulled upward.

“I feel like shit.”

“That is not surprising.”

Hawke shifted and groaned. His wounds stretched with any movement, so he was left to lie still. “You look like shit,” he rasped.

Fenris’ smile dropped.

“You look tired,” Hawke amended with a quiet chuckle. His eyes slipped shut again. “Go to sleep. M’awake now.”

With a shake of his head, Fenris helped Hawke back to the bedroll. “Not yet. Too much to do.” He folded his knees under him and pressed a kiss to Hawke’s forehead. It was a relief he’d have to share with Anders when the mage woke. The pain he’d endured was well worth it to hear Hawke’s voice again, even if he did jam his foot in his mouth. At this point, it was honestly endearing to hear the man say anything at all.

Hawke was still smiling when he dozed off.

 

* * *

 

Anders woke to the sound of someone rifling through his pack. He turned his head to the side to find the source of the noise. There was Fenris, sitting on the stone floor with all of their packs spread around him and organized into piles.

The last of Anders’ clothing was added to the designated pile, then Fenris sat back on his rear and stared down at the mess he’d made.

When no answers seemed to spring up, the elf took to tapping his own thigh with the back of his hand. He was anxious, Anders could tell as much without seeing their belongings spread over the tiles. Even through the leather of his jerkin, Anders could see the lines of his shoulder blades drawn together in rigid posture.

“Fenris,” Anders called at his back. The elf’s ear twitched and his body seemed to melt with a long exhale. The tapping ceased.

“Hawke was awake for a moment. He seems a little better.”

With a yawn, Anders nodded. That was good to hear. He’d been too tired to sleep restlessly, but a knot had started to form in his belly as soon as he woke.

He rubbed at his eyes and paused when he realized he’d not even taken off his coat before dozing off. The feathers on his pauldrons were crumpled askew. He frowned and sat up. The leather pulling back his hair tugged awkwardly on a few strands, and he knew his hair must be a mess as well. There was little point in primping now, though he did run a cursory hand over his shoulders.

Beside him, Hawke was indeed sleeping peacefully, the hint of a smile still tugging at his lips. While still pale and worn looking, the man no longer appeared dead in his sleep. It was a small victory.

Hawke’s bandages were unwrapped and rinsed with water from one of the skins. Anders wrung them out and set them to dry along the rim of the oddly still burning fire. In fact, it struck him as odd that the fire would still burn through their hours of rest, but he dismissed this as elven magic. This entire situation was odd, but he couldn’t complain if the twigs lasted longer than anticipated.

The wounds had held well in the hours since last checked. There were no telltale swelling, no pus, and his body was neither clammy nor fevered. The edges of the wound were stained with red, but that was expected after all of the work Anders had put into healing. The flesh was sensitive, but not dangerously so. The body hadn’t quite caught up with what had happened, and so was inflamed and angry. That would change with time. That it hadn’t gotten terribly infected alone was something of a miracle. Hawke wasn’t entirely out of the woods yet, but he hadn’t gotten any worse at least.

A stick of dried meat waved in front of his eyes, causing Anders to jolt back.

“Wha—”

“Eat,” Fenris rumbled beside his ear. He dropped the meat into Anders’ lap and shuffled back to the packs.

On cue, Anders’ stomach stirred to life and rumbled. If he thought about it, he was starving. All of the mana he’d expended drained his body entirely. He’d consider killing for one of those sweet pastries Hawke brought him from Val Chevin. Compared to that, the dried meat was unappetizing.

With a sigh, he took a bite. Dry, salty, and otherwise bland. His lip curled and he turned back to Fenris. “We don’t have anything, I don’t know, _better_ , do we?”

Fenris gave him a blank look and offered the plants he’d gathered by the fountain.

“No, then.” His nose wrinkled and he went back to his meat, all the while silently cursing the desert and everything that lived in it. If they’d just stayed in Val Chevin, or even in a tiny village in Nevarra, they would have been fine. They would have something warm to eat and Hawke wouldn’t be teetering on the brink of death.

Anders stuffed the last of the dried meat into his mouth. No point in procrastinating. He had work to do.

“Give me your foot, won’t you?” He tried to keep it a suggestion. Fenris didn’t tend to take well to orders, especially not from him.

Fenris groaned and extended his leg toward the mage. After so many years traveling with Anders, he’d developed a grudging respect for what healing magic could do. As long as Anders was in control of himself, he’d never hurt Fenris or resort to blood magic. He could be a damn fool when he wanted, sometimes even dangerous, but Anders was on the whole a decent person with a healthy respect for Fenris’ boundaries. As Fenris learned to respect Hawke as a noble man even with his magic, Anders followed. There were times when they would squabble over the appropriateness of magic in any situation. Fenris still avoided magic when possible, but he couldn’t deny that his wound made things a little difficult for him.

Given that Fenris wasn’t exactly going to bleed out from his foot, Anders made a quick check for infection, cleaning out impurities, and let the elf get back to his sorting.

Next came Hawke. Hawke, who against all odds had survived the night well enough to let his companions rest and replenish. Anders was starting to think that maybe Hawke was under the watch of some mischievous god (and he wasn’t so sure it was the Maker) who loved to torment him and then ultimately bring him the best luck of any man alive.

 _Look for venom. Look for infection. Close the wounds as much as possible. Repeat as necessary._ Anders had only just gotten started and was already eyeing Fenris’ brands hungrily. He could see how a person could quickly become addicted to the taste of lyriumed skin under his tongue. He ran along his teeth with the tip of his tongue and shook his head.

_Venom, infection, wounds, repeat._

Magic washed over Hawke’s exposed belly. He searched through every vein carefully, feeling for the bitter twinge that indicated sepsis or poison. Any hints of contamination were destroyed. Toxins were tedious work and required far more precision than simply closing a wound. In addition to cleaning out anything dangerous, he had to encourage the body to continue fighting, continue producing blood, everything it might do naturally if it had the time.

By the time he’d checked over Hawke’s front and moved to the man’s thigh, a sweat had broken on his forehead. His hands were already shaking from exertion. It had not been enough time for his mana to fully recover, and the lack of food certainly hadn’t helped. That left him with either stopping or asking Fenris for help again.

“Fenris,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands.

Behind him, he could hear the elf stiffen and hesitate. He couldn’t blame Fenris. From what he’d seen, having lyrium pulled from his body wreaked havoc on every inch of him, trapping him inside a taut and trembling frame. The only thing that made the pain worse was that he couldn’t free himself from it once it started.

All the same, Fenris was a brave man. Through his guilt, Anders was proud to see Fenris settle beside him and offer his arm. This time he was careful to sit on the other side and not offer the arm that had already been drawn on. Where he’d been sucked before was marred with a mouth-sized hickey, though it looked infinitely more uncomfortable than anything given in passion. It was red and angry looking, like more of an attack than an indication of affection. The tattooed lines there seemed somehow faded, perhaps because Anders had taken all of the lyrium there. When Anders ran his fingers over Fenris’ knuckles, the brands did still flicker to life and the faded area seemed to even out a little.

Anders took a deep breath. Fenris had been willing to do this again. He’d had a choice in the matter. If it became too much, Anders would not do this again. As he reassured himself, Anders brought his lips to Fenris’ arm, and so the elf’s pain began anew.

Fenris was quieter this time, but his body reacted just as strongly as it had earlier this morning. The first suck brought a strangled grunt from his lips, and then he fell silent save the sound of his panting. He was unable to fight Anders off, but the mage kept a wary eye on his face. When Fenris’ lids started to droop, he released his arm and helped him settle onto the floor. There he again curled up and waited for the pain to pass.

Anders had done a decent job of ridding Hawke of the venom earlier, and with Fenris’ help there was little left to draw out. Despite this morning’s panic, Anders had some confidence that Hawke would be all right. Even in a ball on the floor, Fenris seemed to be handling being drawn on better this time. If they could keep up this pattern for another day or so, they might be in shape to ride again.

Fenris’ lyrium gave him another surge of mana, so Anders made an attempt to fully close the wounds. He could feel tissue knitting together bit by bit, slowly covering the open wounds. Scabs grew with it, a welcome roughness under Anders’ fingers. Everything was raw and tender. The nerves were singing with discomfort as flesh covered them again.

It was an exhausting process for everyone.

At least Fenris seemed to recover quicker this time. Before Anders ran out of mana, the elf stumbled back to his spot by the packs and was back to staring down at the many stacks he’d created. There was no tapping this time.

With languid, uncertain movements, he condensed the piles, heaping together all of their clothing and lining up empty flasks that once contained potions. The metal flask containing oil was lined up along with them, though set in the back after Fenris shook it lightly.

He found a single Anderfels toy solider in one of the packs and turned it delicately between his fingers. Anders half expected Fenris to cast it aside as worthless, but instead he set it upright in front of the flasks.

Their remaining food rations were gathered onto a scarf and split into three groups. One, clearly Hawke’s, was larger than the others. When he woke again, he’d have a huge appetite. It would be best to share as much food with him as possible while he healed.

Along with salted meat, crackers, and a few pieces of dried fruit (which Anders eyed enviously as they made their way into Hawke’s collection), Fenris also divvied out the edible plants. They were not particularly appetizing, but they did make their meager rations look a little larger. They’d have less than a week with the barest of meals, but with all the healing done between the group, it would not last so long.

 _All the more reason to heal up and leave_ , Anders thought. Now that he was awake and no longer panicking, he felt uneasy in the temple. Something about it seemed ominous, no matter how welcome the front room was with its little fire. Fenris had not commented on it yet, so perhaps it was all in Anders’ head. All the same, he’d rather not linger longer than necessary.

Anders let the magic in his hands slow to a stop.

“Are you tired?” he asked over his shoulder. He’d not been awake long, but this high intensity, detail-oriented healing wore him faster than the scrapes and colds he’d dealt with in Kirkwall. Perhaps it had been too long and he was getting rusty.

“No.” Fenris did not look up from his piles. “Rest if you are weary. I will keep watch.” Something about his voice sounded hollow. Anders leaned forward to try to get a look at the elf’s face, but Fenris turned and pointed to the bedroll. “It would do Hawke good to have someone beside him.”

“Fine. But put some elfroot on that wound, alright?” He gestured to the clotted hole in Fenris’ foot. He’d done a little healing on it, so it wasn’t likely to get infected, but it wouldn’t do to have Fenris limping around forever. “I need to make poultices anyway.”

The white haired head nodded and returned to studying an empty pack. Whatever Fenris was doing, it seemed very important to him. Weird, but important.

“Fenris?”

The elf groaned and tangled his fingers into his hair. “What?” he snapped.

“Good night!” Anders chirped, a little relieved to see Fenris feeling well enough to be grumpy. He pushed all anxiety about the place to the back of his mind and stretched out beside Hawke.

 

* * *

 

The next day and evening passed similarly. Anders would wake, feeling revitalized, he’d nibble on whatever food Fenris offered him, and then he’d set to work healing Hawke’s wounds.

Without draining Fenris to exhaustion, Anders could only work in little bursts. He had to double back on infections starting in Hawke’s wounds, but ultimately this ensured that Hawke’s body would be able to catch up to the healing done. Taking the healing slower seemed to encourage Hawke’s own body to heal itself.

Hawke did awaken once more that day, though only long enough to complain about the pain and swallow a few mouthfuls of Anders’ bitter elfroot brew and a few bites of cracker. Anders wasn’t particularly worried about this, as the man would need time to recover. So long as they could get something more substantial into him tomorrow, his healing would be on track and they could leave the temple.

Every time he woke to work his magic on Hawke, he found the man looking stronger and healthier. He was in no condition to walk or help around their camp, but it truly seemed he would recover.

That pleasant thought allowed Anders to turn in bed that night more confident than he’d been the day before.

Yet when the sun rose the following morning and found their bedrolls short one elf, it occurred to him that he’d not been paying enough attention to his other companion.

It was a relief to see Fenris had not gone far. He was sitting cross-legged in the temple doorway, looking at the desert stretched out before him. The pink light of the sun rising over the horizon silhouetted his back.

Fenris was a man of great physical discipline, yet it was still a surprise to see him sitting so terribly still, looking at what Anders assumed to be nothing. As he crawled out from the blankets to kneel by Fenris’ side, he saw little more than a few leathery creatures with quills protruding from their backs stalking the sand. Fenris’ eyes did not seem to follow them, and instead seemed intent on the spot where the first lights of day spread across the desert.

“Fenris…?” Anders hazarded, letting his shoulder brush against Fenris’. “Have you been awake for long?”

The elf did not respond immediately. His eyes were hazy and unfocused. Anders immediately assumed it must be a side effect of the lyrium drawing. After all, there must have been something more to keep him docile in Danarius’ hands than simply the promise of punishment.

“I was going to refill our water at the fountain,” Fenris eventually murmured. His voice retained the same hollow quality it had had as he sorted through the packs.

Anders frowned and shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he craned his head to look at Fenris’ face. As expected, he found dark bags under the elf’s eyes. They were deeper than usual however, a sign of his exhaustion from the previous days. Fenris had turned in at the same time as Anders last night, but his question had gone unanswered. There was little to do around camp before dawn, and yet Fenris had clearly been sitting in this spot long enough to become completely dazed.

With a sigh, Anders reached up and patted Fenris’ cheek, then flicked it with his nail. “If you’re tired, go back to sleep. I can take care of the water.”

No response came, save a quiet sigh behind him and the sound of blankets rustling. Hawke was awake, it seemed. It was time to start the day.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Anders woke to the smell of meat cooking. His stomach rumbled and for a moment he thought he was safe in Hawke’s manor in Hightown, and that Orana would bring in breakfast at any moment.

He opened his eyes and found himself still in the damned temple with Hawke’s hot breath against his hair. It was such a disappointment that he almost believed the smell to be part of his imagination as well. Yet when he looked to the ever-burning fire pit, he found a series of small fennecs skewered on sticks and roasting.

Perhaps had he not been living on little more than edible roots and the occasional scrap of whatever Hawke could not eat, he might balk at the thought of eating the creatures. Now he was too hungry for fresh meat, and he scrambled across the room to check on the cooking foxes.

He judged one of the smaller ones to be well enough cooked and bit into it without so much as considering where they came from. He found that with the taste of fat running over his tongue, he could not care less where they came from. At this point, meat was meat.

As he filled his belly, he cast around the room and found Fenris to be gone. Perhaps he was fetching water or more plants. Perhaps he’d made traps when Anders was otherwise occupied and was setting out more for the fennecs.

His curiosity did not last long, as soon he could hear Fenris limping footsteps echoing from the doorway opposite the entrance. He had not so much as looked into the deeper parts of the temple, and had no will to see what else there might be. His gut still churned in unknown suspicion of the place.

Fenris emerged from the dark with his glowing green eyes looking little more awake than he had the previous morning.

He did not acknowledge Anders as he passed, and went on to the entryway and again sat there. Again, he seemed to think little of the world around him and stared out at the desert.

Anders couldn’t be sure what to make of it. On the one hand, Fenris seemed healthy enough, save the lack of sleep. His foot seemed to bother him still, but it would heal soon enough.

On the other hand, he seemed in a daze and had been since they arrived in this temple. At first Anders had believed it to be related to his drawing lyrium from the elf, but he’d drawn much less yesterday and still Fenris was in this state. Between the packs and now apparently catching fennecs, Fenris had more than carried his weight in keeping them taken care of, but it still struck Anders as odd.

“Fenris,” Anders called and came to sit beside him. “Did you catch all of these?”

He almost didn’t expect Fenris to respond at all, but after a moment’s silence Fenris simply said, “We needed to eat.”

Anders supposed that wasn’t much of an answer, but his thoughts were centered on how empty Fenris sounded.

Perhaps it was not the lyrium at all that made him act this way, but Anders and what he’d done. Could Fenris forgive him doing just as his former master had? The thought made him desperate and stupid.

Anders flung his arms around Fenris’ shoulders half expecting to be shoved away. Even on his best days, Fenris was not likely to take to this contact well, but Anders needed to know where they stood.

Instead of lashing out, Fenris seemed to drift from his fog into awakening. The muscles of his back tensed, then relaxed as he leaned into the mage.

It was a rare gesture of trust, one Anders certainly did not expect now. He tightened his arms around Fenris and pressed a kiss to his cheek. The elf seemed to fill with life under his lips. Fenris shifted, let his fingers draw over Anders’ thigh, and then he stood.

“I’ll gather more herbs,” he rumbled, casting a glance back on Hawke. “Make sure he gets something to eat.”

Just like that, the spell was broken. Whatever hold dawn had on him was gone. Now only surviving another day held Fenris’ attention.

 

* * *

The next morning went much the same. Again, Fenris emerged from the depths of the temple, and again there were fennecs over the fire. This time though, it seemed Fenris was making an attempt to smoke them. The twigs had been pushed to the side of the fire pit and smoke billowed up from the ashes left behind. It was not ideal, and the fennecs seemed to be cooking regardless of Fenris’ intentions, but perhaps it would last better than the meat they’d had the previous day.

Though he’d asked Fenris about where their food had come from a few times, he’d never gotten any actual response. He wondered when Fenris became so secretive about his accomplishments. Anders had yet to see any sign of traps or snares, so he was left to wonder how Fenris was catching their meals. In the end, he supposed it mattered little.

Hawke was awake most of the day. He still wore out easily and wasn’t his usual active self, but after days of sleeping it was a relief to see his eyes open.

Even with Hawke to occupy him, Anders could not let go of his concerns. Anders did his best to keep focused on Hawke. The man’s wounds were pink and tender, and dreadfully sore at every movement. While there was little concern of them opening again, Hawke found no comfort. It was for him that they yet lingered in the temple.

While Fenris kept himself occupied outside by tending to the horses, gathering herbs, and refilling their water skins, Anders turned to Hawke and ran his fingers over the ridges of bandages.

“We should leave tomorrow, if you’re up to it.”

Hawke frowned and stretched his side, then hissed. “Not that I really like staying here, but if you want me to ride tomorrow, you’re going to have to help me numb the pain.” He paused and looked toward the open temple door. “Is this about Fenris?”

“A little, yes,” Anders admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Not just that. Something is not right here. Let’s just get this over with and find somewhere nice to settle down for a while.” Even he could hear the begging tone in his voice. He sounded desperate and worn thin. He had not meant to worry Hawke about any of this, but perhaps taking on this job had been a bad idea, and not just because they’d been attacked.

Hawke let out a breathy chuckle and nodded. “It’ll be slow going, but I agree. I want to get out of this damned desert and sleep in a warm bed.” Privately he doubted that Weisshaupt would offer much of a warm welcome, but at the very least they would be likely be able to find a warm bed in one of the neighboring towns. The entire Anderfels could not be as dead as the desert.

By the time night fell, all three were in agreement that morning would have them leave the temple. Anders and Fenris would take turns walking and riding one of the horses, while Hawke would stay mounted and dictate their breaks from travel. Fenris gathered as much elfroot as he could carry, and Anders spent the better part of the day making poultices and elementary potions.

They were all exhausted, and only Hawke was feeling particularly interested in talking. He babbled on and on about some crazy elf at Skyhold who’d thrown cookies at his head, and the magical wonder that was now Cullen’s hair. Neither of his companions offered much in response, save the occasional chuckle or grunt. Hawke didn’t mind much; he could carry on conversations with walls.

Eventually he talked himself to sleep, trailing off at the end of a particularly thrilling story about the Seeker who’d abducted Varric loving his racy romance novels.

From his spot by the fire, Anders watched as a worn looking Fenris kneeled on the bedroll beside Hawke and pulled the blankets up to the man’s chin. After a moment’s hesitation, fingers lingering along the edge of the blanket, Fenris bent forward and rubbed his cheek against Hawke’s.

Anders paused his herb grinding and furrowed his brows. He’d seen Fenris demonstrating almost animalistic behavior before, but only when thoroughly intoxicated. To see him do it now when weeks sober was odd. He couldn’t imagine it meant anything good for the elf’s mental state.

He conceded that it could be worse. The cheek rubbing was cute and reminded him of Ser Pounce-a-lot, who had been left in the care of a little girl near Vigil’s Keep. Fenris could be very cat like when driven to it, and Anders could swear he once heard him purr after drinking too much. He of course had no reason to believe that elves were capable of such a thing, but it fed into the illusion he’d built around Fenris.

Maybe stress was getting to Fenris. In fleeing Kirkwall, they’d at least been able to find places to stay, food to eat, medicine when needed. Anders knew he’d given his companions a scare once or twice in their immediate escape. His mind had felt like it was collapsing under the weight of itself, and the burden of the lives he’d taken was enough to push him to dark measures. Things weren’t entirely perfect with him now, but he’d gotten better about seeking out company when his moods took a turn for the worse.

Fenris hadn’t cracked then. He’d gotten angry a few times, kicking and screaming and biting, but never crying or…whatever he was doing now. Anders wondered if perhaps the drinking had not been the symptom of stress, but this odd behavior. Stress had previously had overlapped with Fenris drinking too much and acting oddly.

Expecting Fenris to turn at any moment and catch him staring, Anders dropped his gaze and scraped the herbs off of the cleaned stones he’d been using as a mortar and pestle. Everyone seemed to be struggling with this errand they’d been sent on, and it would be better for all of them to have it over with soon.

Though worn by the day’s work, when he turned in for bed that night, Anders slept restlessly. There was a presence pushing at the back of his mind, leaving him stressed and frustrated.

When he did manage to doze off, his passing dreams were filled with Blight and fire. A deep voice echoed through the images, commanding in a language Anders could not understand. The dream grew darker and darker, while the voice grew louder and more desperate.

Memories of Vigil’s Keep and his time traveling with the Hero of Ferelden wove through tales of horror he’d heard secondhand from Oghren. At times he found himself in Kinloch Hold, surrounded by abominations and darkspawn, though he’d not been in the tower by the time Uldred went mad. In the tower, he saw bodies of familiar mages and mundanes alike, some twisted gruesomely, others burning in piles. The booming voice urged him on through halls and libraries, but it never seemed satisfied with his actions.

He was not certain whether it was the dream or something else that drew him into awakening. Anders’ heart pounded, his head throbbed. An intense panic filled him and he cast desperately around the room, looking for what he wasn’t sure.

Yet even as the nightmare drew away, the deep voice continued on in his mind. It was a man’s voice, Justice’s voice.

“What?” he gasped aloud. Justice continued on, but Anders could decypher none of what was said. It was fast and slurred together, perhaps not even in Ander or Trade. He panted and closed his eyes, willing the spirit to slow and explain himself. Instead of finding understanding, he found the nerves around his eyes singing in pain until they burst open again.

This time he saw exactly what Justice meant.

Through the doorway at the far side of the room, a faint blue light illuminated the dark corridor leading deeper into the tunnel. Anders did not need to look to the bedroll beside Hawke. He knew that light anywhere.

“Fenris!” he shouted and scrambled out of the makeshift bed. Anders paid no thought to his bare feet or the fact that he was in nothing more than a loose tunic and trousers.

The elf was far down the corridor, his lyrium casting light along the narrow walls. Just as the hall came to an end and opened into a another room, Anders caught him by the arm. Fenris was pliant under his grip and swayed when Anders pulled at his arm.

“Where are you going? What are you doing?” Anders demanded.

There was no response in the silent, stagnant air. Fenris did not look to him, but instead his gaze remained staunchly forward. It was as though his sharp ears had not heard Anders’ words, and instead picked up something ahead. He pulled forward and stepped down into the open room. Anders made to pull him back against his chest and demand answers, but was startled and froze.

The instant Fenris’ bare toes touched the first step into the open temple room, braziers on all walls burst into flame. The great room lit, revealing a horrifying inner sanctum. The walls were decorated with mosaics of monstrous figures, beasts both familiar and not. Skulls lined the overhangs on the upper part of the wall, some with withered pelts draped beneath them. The flame’s light danced off of carvings of wyverns and gurguts and halla protruding from pillars. At the center of the room stood a statue of an archer as tall as a dragon.

The tiled floor, though beautifully patterned with wildlife and foliage, was hidden beneath corpses of fennecs in various states of decay.  

Anders' stomach flopped with the realization that _this_ was were their meals had come from. 

Again, Justice’s voice boomed through Anders’ head. The words were no clearer now than they had been in his sleep. If anything they were louder, now shouting and demanding. The noise was such that he feared the spirit would claim his body again and force his actions. At this point, it might be a relief. He might know what the spirited needed so badly.

As the shock of the inner temple started to wear off, Anders noticed the air seemed alive with wild light. The fire was hardly contained in its braziers and seemed set to burst from its cages. Even more concerning was the shift in energy he could feel down to his core. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. The fire danced so violently that he almost believed the statues and mosaics to be alive.

As he stared into the warm light, figures started to take shape. They were not so clear to be the full bodies of men or elves, but Anders could see their grasping hands reaching for them. Long fingers cut through the air and clawed him and Fenris, though they seemed to fall short of touching them.

Justice surged within him, bellowing against the inside of his skull. Anders could feel cracks in his skin as Justice struggled for control. He offered it willingly, but the spirit seemed to be unable to order anything but his eyes. In doing so, Anders found himself looking to the statue at the center of the room--no, behind it. A pair of orange eyes glowed in the dark far beyond. They were far too large to be that of any living thing he’d ever seen, save perhaps a dragon. Not once did they blink, but instead seemed to grow brighter and brighter, drawing in the light of the braziers.

Fenris too stared ahead, his gaze blank and uncomprehending. He seemed no more concerned about the spirits or the eyes than if they’d been yet more miles of sand stretched out before him. His posture was limp and relaxed, though his arm as angled oddly in Anders’ grip.

Whatever was going through Fenris’ head (and Anders doubted it was anything at all) this was place was not safe. The eyes seemed to draw closer, the spirits more vigorous in their attempts to close the gap between them. Anders stepped back into the corridor and pulled at Fenris’ arm. Relaxed though he seemed, Fenris was immovable. Anders threw his weight into pulling him, leaning back on his heels and attempting to drag him by the arm back into the hall. In doing so, he separated himself from the elf’s back.

This seemed to tear down the wall between Fenris and the spirits. Orange and red half formed bodies hurtled themselves at him and gripped at every inch of flesh they could reach. Fenris’ tattoos, once glowing softly, now burst into light. As it had when Anders drew from him, Fenris’ body went taut. He let out a strangled groan as the pain of the brands overwhelmed him. Where once he’d been in a peaceful daze, now he was engulfed in the feeling that his own muscles were set to tear him apart.

He staggered back, his legs unable to support him like this, and Anders caught him in his arms. The spirits again scattered, but were persistent in their conquest of the elf’s calves and feet.

The mage locked his arms around Fenris’ waist and attempted to lift him. Maker, the muscled elf was heavy.

Anders stumbled back a step and tried again, but was cut short of his effort by a thick arm over his around Fenris’ middle. This one seemed more able to lift Fenris off his feet and it brought Anders with him.

“Run!” shouted Hawke beside his ear. He turned them and shoved Anders down the hall. Fenris he dragged with him, with his limping gait and long strides. Flames licked at their heels, having spilled from the braziers and onto the tiled floor and mass of carcasses. The foul stench of burning flesh and fur filled the air, and Anders might gag were he not in such a rush to leave.

Adrenaline rushed them on and they crashed out of the corridor and into the front room. Their steps did not slow and Anders and Hawke rushed out the temple door and onto the stairs. Fenris did not run on his own and was instead cradled to Hawke’s side. He moaned weakly in their flight, but was otherwise quiet and still.

Out the door, they slowed and Anders looked back over his shoulder. The flames had carried on into the hall, but seemed to give up their chase before they entered the travelers’ camp.

“Wait, Hawke!” he called and bent forward to brace his hands on his knees. Hawke paused on the step ahead of him and turned back. “It stopped. We’re safe out here.”

With a relieved sigh, the burly mage fell back to sit on the steps. Fenris lay limp in his arms, eyelids fluttering uselessly and his body rigid and trembling.

Hawke panted and smoothed a hand over Fenris’ cheek and up across his forehead. The brands had dimmed in their escape, and in fact now seemed so dull they almost matched the skin around them. Almost. As Hawke ran his fingers over the three circles on Fenris’ forehead, he could still feel the ridge of flesh and found they looked more like scars than tattoos. He frowned and lifted the elf’s arm. A couple of purple welts marred the lines of the brands, but he could still see that the lyrium was faded here too.

“Anders--”

“It’s alright,” the mage assured Hawke, slumping beside him and letting his fingers find Fenris’ pulse point. “The spirits seem to have drawn the lyrium out of him, but it should restore itself.” His thumb brushed over an eyelid and pulled it back to reveal a green sliver of iris around blown pupils. He laughed, a bit too high and hysterical to be comforting. Another disaster, but everyone made it out alive again.

They both fell silent, uncertain what could possibly said about what they’d just witnessed. Neither was actually sure what that was. Some time in their escape, Justice had fallen dormant as well, and now all Anders could hear was quiet breaths that turned the air white as smoke.

Cold air cut to the bone through their lighter sleeping clothes, and they were left numb and shocked. When the adrenaline finally wore off, Hawke pressed a tentative hand to his injuries. He’d stretched them by running, and though they were sore no damage seemed to be done.

They sat like that for what was surely hours, huddled together with Fenris curled against Hawke’s lap. They all shivered in the night air, but did not dare enter the temple.

When Hawke was thoroughly miserable and certain he was slowly freezing to death, he turned to Anders.

“Tell me seriously now, Anders. Is this entire country just sand and bullshit?”

Anders blinked at him, then looked back over his shoulder toward the temple. The last light of flames had finally died out of the hallway, leaving the interior of the temple to only be lit by the firepit they’d enjoyed the last few nights. Without a doubt, this temple was what the Dalish elf had meant. Whatever spirit occupied the place, it seemed to prey on elves and lured them into...what, he wasn’t sure. Possession, he supposed. The one decent thing that had happened to them on this horrible adventure turned out to be one of the worst.

He wet his lips and nodded. “I’m starting to think that yes, the entire country of the Anderfels is ‘sand and bullshit’.” 

 

* * *

 

Dawn came and Hawke tentatively entered the temple once more. He left Fenris and Anders nestled together on the steps.

He was relieved to find that their gear had survived the incident, and that the fire had indeed stopped just short of the second door. Fenris’ newfound habit of arranging the contents of their packs proved useful in that he was able to find the tent and food without having to rummage around. On his first trip down from the temple, he brought their bedding and the tent. He helped Anders wrap the still unconscious elf in blankets, then left him to start building the tent not far from the fountain and its vegetation.

Next came a pack filled with food and medical supplies, though neither were of much use to them now. Those awake were too jittery to eat, and Fenris had no wounds medicine could heal. Then came water and clothes, and finally armor and weapons. Hawke was tempted to throw Fenris’ damn sword down the steps and save himself the trouble of carrying it, but he knew Fenris would sulk all day if any damage was done to his blade. Out of pure love, he hauled the thing all the way to the half-pitched tent and laid it flat beside the packs.

Together, he and Anders stuck in the last of the tent stakes and carried Fenris down from the steps to rest in the slowly warming tent. This time, Fenris was put in the middle. He was in no condition to protest, let alone kick and hiss the way he usually did when surrounded.

Instead, he burrowed into Anders’ belly, rubbing the top of his head against the man’s chest before settling into a deep slumber.

“He’s doing that thing again,” Hawke noted with arched brows as he settled behind Fenris. He flattened his palm along Fenris’ spine and rubbed up and down his back.

“I’m hoping that will pass. He’s been off since we came here.” Anders rested a protective arm around the elf’s shoulders.

“So...Justice is back.”

Anders frowned. “Apparently.” Now the spirit was quiet, but he did not seem so distant as he had before. “The way he spoke, I don’t understand it. I believe he woke me, but I couldn’t figure out what he was saying.”

“And that’s never happened before?”

Anders shook his head. “He wanted to tell me _something_ though. I think…” he trailed off and clenched his eyes shut, trying to draw the words from the back of his mind. “The god, or the spirit, the idea of the place, whatever resided there, it was corrupted somehow.” His eyes opened again and sought out Hawke. “I don’t know how to explain it. I think Justice wanted us to stay away from there all along.”

“Wish he’d said something about it that we could understand.” Hawke dragged his fingers up into Fenris’ pale hair. “But we may owe him Fenris’ life.”

“He’ll enjoy that, being indebted to a ‘demon’.”

Hawke chuckled and pressed a kiss to the tip of Anders’ nose. “If it’s you, he’ll be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, the elven temple is dedicated to June.


	3. All is undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weisshaupt is worse than anyone expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this being...wow, over a week late. But it's done now!

“It felt as though I were a slave again. It was compulsion. I questioned nothing, only obeyed.”

Out of the temple, their journey had taken an easier turn. Upon waking, Fenris was livelier than he’d been in days. Despite Anders’ protests that he take it easy and keep off his feet, he was insistent in letting the mage ride the spare horse while he walked beside. Hawke, being injured as he was, was given the second horse.

He wasn’t his old self yet by far, not when he seemed to be simmering with energy and tapping his thigh restlessly with the back of his fingers. Every little sound seemed to draw his attention, every odd gust of wind made him pause and scan the area. It was disconcerting to watch him as energetic as a toddler at a toy stand, but it was a relief to having him talking and awake. No one could complain if he was on edge. With their luck, they could use someone watching out for them at all times.

“And you didn’t think anything about picking up dead fennecs off the ground of a creepy elven temple?” Hawke was less than amused at the thought that he’d eaten the drained husks of creatures Fenris had found in the temple, even if it had kept him fed. So far, none of them had shown any signs of worms or food poisoning. Given Fenris’ rather hazy memory of the whole thing, they silently elected to believe what he’d fed them was fully fresh.

“Apparently not,” Fenris muttered from below, hand loosely curled around the reins of Hawke’s horse. The beast nickered and nibbled at his gauntlet. In the earlier days of their trip, Fenris had been spotted a few times offering the horses bits of apples. Now they were spoiled rotten and nipped at Fenris’ fingers whenever they got the chance.

“Compulsion though,” Anders hummed and tapped his chin. Justice tinged his thoughts with images of violence and fear, perhaps memories of the temple. “It makes me wonder what exactly was there. Those eyes...I wonder if that _was_ a god.”

“Then the Dalish are bigger fools than I thought.” Fenris scowled and picked up the pace, pulling Hawke’s horse along with him. Hawke laughed and waved back to Anders, looking far too happy for a man who’d been gutted just a few days ago.

Anders sighed and pulled the outdated map from his saddle bag. So far it had been of little use to them, save the most vague of landmarks. None of the towns they’d passed were still living, all abandoned to the elements. “There may be another town northeast of here, or at least a well. Maybe we’ll get lucky for once and find someone there.”

From up ahead, Hawke bellowed toward the sky, “If there is a Maker, bring us a trader!” He cackled at his own rhyme until Fenris swatted his horse’s rear and let it bolt forward free of its lead.

* * *

For once, they were indeed lucky.

A small but lively town sprouted up at the foot of the mountains. It was not the sort of place to have an inn, or even a bar, but traders set up their tents between the rings of houses and sold their wares.

The houses here were better tended to than their abandoned counterparts. The thick red clay painted along the houses was still vivid and had not been worn away by sand the way it had out in the desert. Some were even painted with simple patterns, circles and plants and animals drawn with thick lines of a darker clay.

The people of the Anderfels were all tall and sturdy types. Fenris gave a confused grunt while Anders conversed with the traders and wondered how the mage ended up so wisp thin and fragile looking. If anything, Hawke looked more like these people than Anders, save the blond hair and freckles prevalent in everyone they met. Fenris alone was entirely out of place. There were no elves in the village, let alone any with his striking brands.

Anders translated a few confused questions from the villagers with a laugh. “They think you’re a Warden. None of them have seen the Dalish up close, they think they’re not real.”

“Small mercy,” Fenris scowled.

“They don’t know anything about the temple either. I don’t get the impression they travel south much.”

Hawke interrupted them with a smack to Anders’ back and some sort of pheasant dangling in their faces. “I bought dinner!” He rifled around his packs and then produced a couple of apple-like fruits. “And dessert! But if you’re both good, I’ll let you have them now.” Hawke flashed his famous grin and dangled the fruits by their stems.

Anders opened his mouth, presumably to say something sweet to earn his fruit, but Fenris made no such attempt and simply snatched them both away.

For a moment, Anders was certain Fenris would eat them both and leave him with nothing. Fenris studied the fruit, one in each hand, before biting into the smaller of the two and handing Anders the larger. Anders’ brows shot up, but he accepted the fruit. Since leaving Kirkwall, Fenris’ sharp edges had dulled to the point that he was almost _nice_ to Anders from time to time, and not just in bed. In the temple, he’d been downright gentle. Of course now that they were away from that horrible place, Fenris was back to being prickly. Sweet, but prickly.

When Anders bit into the fruit, he was overcome with the familiar taste of his childhood. Growing up in the Anderfels, he was familiar with these….he would call them pear-apples, and had enjoyed them as a youth. They didn’t grow anywhere else that he’d seen, though from time to time they’d show up in the Kirkwall market. He had never wasted his money on them, not when he had patients who needed herbs and bandages.

Now it was such an easy thing to have.

 

* * *

 

They rested for the night in the town, then saddled up early in the morning. The Hunterhorns faded into low hills and dunes, signalling their turn eastward toward Weisshaupt.

Their travels again took them through abandoned towns, but granted them a break from the wind and cold. These houses were in better condition than those they’d seen further south, perhaps because the hills shielded them from the elements.

One such town had a still legible sign attached to one of the houses. Anders brushed away the sand and traced his fingertip over the name. It seemed familiar to him.

Around the campfire that night, he realized this was his father’s hometown. He’d not heard it mentioned more than once or twice in his childhood, but the name was branded in his mind.

 _Malchin_.

They were not so very far from Anders’ own hometown. He wasn’t sure why he bothered to remember that; he’d never return to his parents’ house.

All the same, while Fenris and Hawke made their dinner over the fire, Anders found his mind wandering. He wondered what it was like for his father to grow up here, when the town was still alive. He wondered when the man started to hate mages. Was it something the Chantry taught, or was it something so prevalent in society that he didn’t need to learn a thing?

Anders dragged his fingers through his hair, eyes set on the fire. He wondered what he would have been like, had he not been a mage. Would he be the same as the burly men they’d seen in the town, satisfied with an easy life, a wife and kids, getting his news from traders months away from their source? Would he be willing to give up the life he had for something easier?

His gaze flickered to Hawke and Fenris. Fenris was busy plucking the pheasant while Hawke poked at him with a dulled stick, apparently attempting to lure him into conversation. A demonstration of Fenris’ softened demeanor came in the form of Fenris not snapping the stick in two, but instead chuckling and swatting the man away.

 _No_ , he decided. Even in all of the hardship he’d endured and caused, he would not give up what he had now. He may not live a long or happy life, but if he died tomorrow he would know that he was loved and that his life had meant something.

A heavy form settled beside him and slung an arm around his shoulders.

“We’ve got a while until the bird cooks. Hope you’re not starving too much, eh?” Hawke pressed a kiss to his cheek and stretched his legs out before him.

“Assuming it’s still edible after you dropped it,” Fenris added, taking a seat on Anders’ other side.

“Just dirt! Dirt never killed anyone. In Ferelden, we _bathed_ in dirt.”

“It shows.”

Anders shook his head with a quiet laugh. It never ceased to be odd that Fenris, prickly and unvain Fenris, was the one most insistent about bathing. Apparently Tevinter standards of hygiene were far different than those of Ferelden.

It reminded him that he knew far more about his lovers than they knew about him.

“You two...you…” His smile fell a little. “You know I grew up not far from here. Until the Templars took me away to the Circle.”

His companions fell silent. Even Justice’s constant hum in the back of his mind quieted. It was so rare to hear Anders say anything at all about his time in the Anderfels. The most they’d heard about it was that Anders wasn’t a native Ferelden, despite his time in Kinloch Hold. Beyond that, the mage was evasive and defensive. Yet now, he willingly brought up the subject. Now thirty years out of the country and in the company of two lovers both having narrowly dodged death in the last few days, he felt more at home than he had since fleeing Kirkwall.

“When I was just a boy, I lived in Kierpse, maybe a day’s ride to the east.” Anders smiled faintly. For all the bad, there were some fond memories of the place. Through the eyes of a child, it had been a pleasant enough place to grow up. “There weren’t many children in the town, so the few of us played by throwing rocks at the town’s barn…”

 

* * *

 

After the fright they’d all endured, Hawke declared it was time for a bonding activity. As expected, his definition of “bonding activity” involved losing pants.

The next night was spent in another abandoned town. More of the towns seemed empty than not, though during the day they’d met traders on their way south and restocked supplies. Still, in some ways, it was better to be alone in the desert. There was no one around to hear them squabbling, and then eventually fucking in their tiny tent.

The light and warmth of the campfire just outside filtered through the canvas, casting a golden glow over the three of them. Hawke sat off to the side, legs crossed and fingers loosely grasping  himself, watching Fenris rut against Anders’ back. Fenris’ sharp teeth nipped at the knobbly bone at the base of Anders’ neck, scraping at the skin there until it grew red and tender.

Anders’ body was too long to fit properly under Fenris, and the mage was arched like a bow so that his hips and neck matched Fenris’.

Despite his teeth against Anders’ skin, Fenris moved carefully. In their later days left alone outside Val Chevin, they started to understand one another’s needs in bed. As always, Fenris had to initiate any sort of sensual touch, but Anders could suggest it either verbally or by stripping. Sometimes he was left alone and naked, but increasingly often Fenris would follow him into bed.

Fenris needed to feel like he was in control. He was usually on top, regardless of who was doing what. It had taken Anders a few tries before Fenris calmed enough to be ridden. Anders needed to feel something. More than a few times he goaded Fenris into being rough with him, only to leave them both upset and stressed after. This, Fenris manhandling and biting him as he pleased, was the best compromise they could find.

Things were a bit easier when Hawke was involved. However, injured as he was, even riding a horse was something of a challenge. Instead, he was happy to watch and critique.

“I think he likes it,” Hawke chuckled, bending forward to brush his thumb over Anders’ saliva slicked lips. Anders parted his lips and let Hawke’s thumb past them. His tongue flicked against Hawke’s salty skin. Hawke chuckled, then groaned. He’d be tempted to make better use of Anders’ mouth were it not for an ache in his belly and thigh that told him not to move around so much. His wounds, though mostly healed, made him cringe and he sat back.

“He likes it a lot,” Anders breathed, letting his teeth sink into his lower lip. His hips pushed back against Fenris’ taking him deeper with a pleased shiver.

“He’s too loud,” growled Fenris with a particularly sharp snap of his hips.

That was enough to silence Anders for the moment. The mage fell weak beneath him and buried his face in his arms. Fenris sunk his teeth fully into Anders’ shoulder and sped his pace. Anders was pliable under Fenris’ hands and was easily shoved down so that Fenris could drive into him. Fenris’ hands curled into the blankets on either side of Anders ribs and his toes started to curl.

Hawke licked his lips. “Gentle, Fenris. You don’t want to hurt him.”

It was a relief to see the elf slow and pry his teeth from Anders’ shoulder. When he’d left the two of them in Orlais, Hawke hadn’t been entirely certain he’d come back to find anyone alive. Things had changed between them over the years, but Anders and Fenris never got along particularly well alone. Despite their shared understanding, Hawke had always been the glue between them, and alone he never expected them to stick together. That they had indeed stuck together and then some was beyond shocking...and had perhaps become fodder for all of his fantasies.

Even without much time to properly explore the idea while on the road, Hawke certainly had daydreamed about it in the endless hours on horseback. It made his trousers tight and uncomfortable against his leather saddle, but that hardly stopped his mind’s wild paths.

Fenris flattened his tongue over the bite mark, the rubbed his forehead against the opposite shoulder.

Beneath him, Anders bucked his hips up. He pushed against Fenris and urged him on into a sharper pace. “Won’t hurt me,” he hissed, and trailed off with a moan. “There--oh, there!” He dissolved into pleased noises and Fenris rumbled behind him, following every order with relish.

As Hawke watched and continued to stroke himself, it occurred to him that he may have created monsters in bringing these men together. Watching them like this though, putting on a show for him, he found he really couldn’t mind.

 

* * *

The last stretch to Weisshaupt was relatively uneventful. After their bonding evening, they were all in high spirits. By the time the fortress came into view on the horizon, they were back to laughing and joking (or rather, Hawke and Anders laughed and joked while Fenris would crack the occasional smile and chuckle).

Weisshaupt loomed over the craggy countryside. The land here was not sandy like much of the Anderfels, but instead densely packed with some low hardy grass scattered here and there. Though was some vegetation about, it was as much a desert here as it had been back in the dunes. Nothing thrived here. The wildlife was rugged, yet slim. With so little growing, they had to survive for long periods of nothing but stored up fat and water.

Hawke and his companions were a bit luckier. They’d met a few traders between towns and kept well supplied with food and water. Of course their meals were fairly plain and boring, but they were filling and gave them the energy to carry on.

The road up into the fortress was steep and and rocky. Stones came loose under the horse’s hooves, though Fenris did his best to lead them up a safe and solid path. Surefooted though he was, even he stumbled from time to time. Beneath the stones was a worn trail, but something had caused part of the mountain to collapse over it, leaving it a difficult climb. Why the Wardens had done nothing about it, no one could say. It did seem there were still Wardens inside Weisshaupt, as smoke rose from the inner parts of the fortress.

Though they’d not seen anyone on the road yet, Anders was wary of being seen by the other Wardens. It was unlikely that any would recognize him from his days at Vigil’s Keep, and even less likely that anyone would know he abandoned his post. All the same, he’d grown so used to being cautious around strangers that his hood was like a second skin in the presence of others. It kept him safe, or so he told himself.

At the end of the road, they were met with massive closed doors made of iron. They were taller than most houses in the area, and decorated with thick ropelike corded designs painted over blue, and embellished with sharp winged griffon designs. The artwork was nothing like what one could find anywhere else in Thedas; it was a style unique to the Wardens alone.

Hawke picked up a rock and knocked it against the door. His fist alone would have made little noise against the thick door, but the stone rang out with a loud clang. The sound echoed up to the stone arch above them, seeming to rouse a disheveled man from his guard post.

“There is no one here to give you aid!” the man shouted down at them in the common tongue, though his voice was thick with the Anderfels accent. “You have no business here!”

Hawke looked to Anders, who shrugged. He’d never been to Weisshaupt himself and had no advice to offer.

“We aren’t here to seek your aid,” Hawke shouted back. “We have word of the Wardens in the South. Have you not heard?”

The man went silent for a moment, staring down at them. From this distance, it was impossible to see his expression. Whatever he made of the news, they were not certain. All the same, the man disappeared from the wall and the doors groaned open with a mechanical whirr.

As they passed the doorway, they could see gears grinding against one another along the sides and top of the doorway.

However, even more surprising was the scent that overwhelmed them as they entered the fortress.

_Burning flesh._

It was everywhere, and the source quickly became clear. Black burning bodies were piled around the courtyard, not all whole. A few spears and arrows stuck out of the bodies and some were still in full armor. They were Wardens, this much was certain. No one else wore griffons on their chest plates and pauldrons.

A few stray Wardens wandered the edges of the courtyard, all looking hollow and sick. Their eyes hung on the visitors, watching them hungrily for something Hawke couldn’t place.  

The walls were all painted black where once they had clearly been beautiful grey and white stone. The higher parts of the fortress had seen the wear of weather and some of the paint had chipped away. Green trim, perhaps copper now oxidized, peeked through the paint along the upper parts of the fortress walls. The paint had not stuck so well there, and instead was thick where it had dripped down beneath.

They dismounted and tied their horses to a pillar near a flight of stairs leading up to the wall. As they made their way through the courtyard, Hawke leading and Fenris taking an unofficial rearguard, they neared a large smoldering pile with a metal pike sticking straight out of its center.

Justice rumbled in the back of Anders’ mind, but did not speak. This horror was too great for him and he seemed unable to comprehend what manner of justice or injustice had taken place here.

“What is happening here?” Hawke asked in a low voice, so as to avoid additional attention from the sickly Wardens.

“I don’t know,” whispered Anders, “But it’s definitely nothing good. Look, ahead.” He jutted his chin toward the pike. Its tip skewered the head head of an older man with dark, mottled skin and a short cropped beard. Most distinctive was the spiked tattoo along the side of his face, jutting out over his forehead and under his eye in the shape of what Anders guessed to be a pair of griffin wings. The man’s mouth hung open, revealing the blackened inside of his mouth. His eyes were gone, likely picked out by a brave raven. “The First Warden. I recognize the tattoo. We had a painting of him in Vigil’s Keep.” Anders shuddered and pulled his cloak tightly around him. It was hard to tell how long the man’s head had been on the pike, what with the smoke, but Anders would guess it had been more than a few days.

Whatever had distracted the Wardens from Orlais was not done with yet.

Behind them, Hawke and Anders heard Fenris start and stumble. They looked back to see the elf staring wide eyed at a ghost of a woman standing well within his personal space. He seemed too startled to attempt to put any more space between them, though he leaned backwards and had his arm stretched back so that he could grasp the hilt of his sword.

“Follow me,” the woman rasped and swayed to the side. For a moment, Anders wasn’t entirely certain she was alive. She was so pale, so slim, with dark bags around her eyes and her hair matted in its short cut. She wore the familiar Warden armor of an archer, but carried no bow or arrows. Her shoulders still held a hint of muscle and were broader than those of a civilian, yet the woman seemed to somehow still be starving and weak.

The Warden led them through a maze of fires and piles of ashes, then off to one side through another set of iron doors. These creaked open against her weight and revealed a great hall filled with other Wardens.

The heat inside the hall was stifling, and the room was filled with the roar of discordant voices. No two seemed to be in the same accent or even language. The men and women inside rushed together like waves crashing against the walls. Their staves and halberds and blades slammed against the stone floor.

Anders watched in horror as he spotted corpses on the ground, between and under feet. Their bones were crushed under the weight of the living and their weapons. No one seemed to pay them any mind, save the visitors. He cringed and looked away, not wanting to think about the dark red and pink matter clinging to the bottoms of boots.

As Hawke and his companions entered the room and followed along the back wall where they crowd was thinnest, they drew the gaze of several of the Wardens. The Wardens did not cease their shouting, but did follow these unfamiliar men with their bloodshot eyes. Not a one of them seemed to carry more than a hint of sanity. They watched Anders in particular, who pulled his hood low over his face. The cloth alone was not enough to hide him though. The Wardens seemed to see right through him.

“ _Verderbnis_!” hissed one of the Wardens, a large man with a week’s worth of stubble on his jaw and a scar cut straight across his chin. His eyes were as wild as the rest of the Wardens, with deep bags beneath and an entirely mad look on his face. He lunged for Anders with a broad gloved hand and his fingers skimmed Anders’ shoulder before he was pushed away.

Fenris shoved himself between Anders and the Warden and snarled. His lips pulled back revealing his jagged teeth and a growl rumbled low in his throat. Fenris may well have been a mad dog for how he acted then, and Anders was grateful for that. The Warden gaped down at him, clearly uncertain if he was facing down an elf or a beast.

Hawke pulled Anders into his side while Fenris bore his teeth the Warden. Anders ducked his head down and inched back until he hit the wall. His fingers dug into Hawke’s arm and he tipped his chin up to murmur in the man’s ear, “He can sense me. They know I’m one of them.” The Warden had not recognized Anders for any of his deeds, but instead seemed frantic over a new corrupted being.  When almost every living thing in the fortress was Blighted, it was a wonder a single new presence could be felt over the others.

Fenris arched his arm back to grip the hilt of his sword, eyes still locked on the mad Grey Warden. At length the Warden seemed to think them more trouble than they were worth and turned back to the roar of voices. Fenris dropped his arm, but did not drop his guard. He kept himself between the Wardens and his companions, apparently not trusting their hosts not to turn on them again.

“I don’t understand,” Hawke muttered. “Why are they more worried about another Warden than us?”

As if in response, another Grey Warden leapt up onto a table hidden by the crowd and began shouting at his fellows. He shouted in both Ander and in Trade, demanding order and silence. He received none. If anything, the Wardens seem to grow more frustrated. They pointed their blades at the man’s face and swarmed around the table. An elf in light armor tried to climb up onto the table beside him, but the Warden kicked her away and made another call for order.

This time, there was a response. It was the sound of flesh striking flesh, likely a fist to a face. Suddenly the room was overwhelmed with the sounds of bodies and armor crashing together. The center of the fighting seemed to be toward the back of the hall, and it spread from there. Wardens shoved their way toward the disturbance, some attempting to clamor over the table, only to be shoved off with a rough kick just as the elf had been.

As the Wardens pushed toward the back of the hall, Hawke held up a hand to Fenris and Anders and followed the rush of bodies. Despite their misgivings, Fenris and Anders remained at the wall. Following Hawke wasn’t likely to win them any favors among these people. Anders could not be left alone, nor could he work his way through this crowd without drawing the attention of more madmen.

They watched as Hawke waded his way through the mass of bodies. He sometimes stumbled over an unseen obstacle, and Anders assumed he’d come across the corpses on the tiled floor.

Though many of the Grey Wardens had shoved into the opposite side of the great hall, there were many hanging back. Anders watched his dark head make its way through the Wardens until it stopped just next to the table with the shouting Warden on it. They seemed to converse a moment, then the Warden climbed down for his pedestal and led Hawke off through wooden door off to the side of the hall. As soon as the table was vacated, men and women climbed up onto it and shouted toward the fighting mob.

Fenris frowned, upset that he’d lost sight of the man. “I don’t care to linger here,” he grumbled. His fingers itched to grip the hilt of his sword, but he dared not risk drawing the ire of such a mad army.

Anders bit the inside of his cheek. He was just as unsettled by this place as Fenris was. He didn’t like the way the others looked at him as though they felt that he was one of their kind. It was unnerving to have these strangers know so much about him just from the feeling his blood left on their senses. In Vigil’s Keep, it had been different. Certainly not a one of the Ferelden Wardens could have been said to be entirely sane, but they were nothing like this. They did not reek of terror the way these Wardens did. What was is that these men and women could fear so greatly that they saw in Anders?

Fenris interrupted his throughs by turning toward him and stepping well into his personal space. Anders was about to ask what he was doing, but Fenris turned his gaze back out toward the crowd. In this position, Fenris’ body was something like a shield from the rest of the hall’s occupants, and anyone who ventured close was sure to meet with snarling and perhaps a drawn blade.

Anders almost felt safe.

Then his eyes caught a skull crushed against the floor by a heavy footstep.

* * *

“We have to leave,” panted Hawke as soon as he’d pushed his back back through the Wardens.

Anders and Fenris both looked relieved. They’d been left alone with mad men long enough for the sun to set and the hall to grow dark save the few candles still burning in chandeliers. More than a few Wardens had attempted to approach Anders, none indicated they had any idea who he was save the Darkspawn blood coursing through his own. How they could tell him from the other Wardens, he could not be sure. Fenris snapped and snarled at all of them until they were left in relative peace with a semicircle of Wardens staring at them. They were like trapped animals on the other side of invisible iron bars.

“Go!” Hawke urged them, pushing Fenris none too gently toward the door and dragging Anders along with him.

It was much easier to leave the hall than it had been to work their way in along the back wall. The Wardens had seen enough to keep away from Fenris, and whatever they wanted Anders for did not seem pressing enough to risk losing a limb to the elf’s blade.

Once out the hall’s door, Hawke led them in a brisk pace across the courtyard. The stragglers lingering there watched the visitors depart, but none made any move to stop them. The woman who had led them in was nowhere to be seen, and it was a relief that she did not attempt to escort them out.

The fires had burnt down to smoldering corpses, but as they passed through the courtyard, a mage set about re-igniting them. Having spent the last few hours in the fortress, the smell no longer bothered any of the travelers, but the sight certainly did. It was horrible, seeing these Wardens treat their fallen companions like they were no more than tinder. Hawke doubted any of them had died an honorable death. If anything, he expected these to be victims of mania.

They mounted up on their horses, with Fenris sitting behind Hawke on the burly draft horse, and called to the wall to open the gate. Given their poor luck, it was something of a surprise that they were indeed allowed to leave without further trouble.

The gate creaked open and the travelers made their descent down the same rocky path they’d taken to enter.

Once out of earshot of the wall, Hawke swallowed hard and steadied his gaze directly ahead. “There is some unidentifiable madness in the halls of Weisshaupt, more than what you saw.” He shook his head. “I _would_ say we wasted our time _if_ we couldn’t at least pass along that the Grey Wardens will be of no use to anyone until this blows over.”

“How long have they been like this, I wonder?” Fenris asked, shifting against Hawke and tightening his arm around the man’s midsection.

“It might explain their absence in the Mage Rebellion.” Anders’ horse snorted and sidestepped a particularly large rock, causing him to sway in the saddle. “But there’s a lot more that I don’t understand.”

“The Orlesian Wardens were left to die. That’s all there is to understand,” Hawke growled and ran frustrated fingers through his hair. It had grown long in their travels and had to be pushed up off of his forehead. “No wait, there is more to understand. They...they were left because the Wardens in Weisshaupt were afraid of the Calling spreading. The Grey Wardens have turned into cowards!” His voice rose at the end and he swung his legs angrily. His horse bolted forward, sending rocks skidding down the path. He pulled the reins back and slowed his mount, then started again.

“Grey Wardens all over Thedas came to them asking for help with the rifts and with the Calling, but Weisshaupt closed its doors to them. Apparently some managed to force their way in and they killed the First Warden.” Hawke looked over his shoulder to Anders. “The Hero of Ferelden was with them, but left when the problems in Orlais started to grow.”

“I’m surprised he was willing to leave Ferelden,” Anders hummed, his lips downturned. “Things must be worse than I thought.”

“Oh they are,” Hawke promised with a grim nod. “The leading Wardens in Weisshaupt are now paranoid beyond sanity. They wanted to know if I was a demon. They thought you might be bringing the Calling illness with you. They weren’t sure what to make of you, Fenris,” he hand reached back and patted the elf’s thigh, “But they guessed you were a demon too.”

“Not surprising,” said Anders, who held up his hands in surrender when Fenris glared back at him. “Given how they’re acting, anything unusual seems to be a threat to them.”

“They told me about Blighted animals as well. Not just the dragon Varric was telling me about, but wyverns and rams too.” Hawke fell silent with this, as did his companions. Blighted animals had appeared before, but not in such numbers to concern the Wardens, and certainly not without an actual Blight. There was no Blight though, and wyverns and rams had no business wandering around in the Deep Roads. “They tried to show me the head of a Blighted ram, but it was too decayed to make out. Hell, maybe it was fresh and tainted afterall. They weren’t exactly coherent.”

“I think…” Hawke continued, “I think they’re trying to build up a greater immunity to the Blight. I don’t know how, but the Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt had been treated with something to make them more resistant. They wouldn’t tell me what it was.” His gaze flickered the Anders, the only one of them who knew how Wardens were created. Hawke had his guesses based on what he’d seen with Carver, but even after fleeing their service, Anders was reluctant to share any Grey Warden secrets. “But they could tell you weren’t one of theirs.”

Anders slouched in his saddle and pursed his lips. The implication of the Wardens’ insanity spanned far beyond the Orlais. What the Grey Wardens were doing now suggested they had something in common with the Architect. He wondered how far they would go to save Thedas from future Blights, or from whatever threat they saw now.

If an Archdemon was unleashed, if the Wardens drove themselves into such a madness that they dissolved, perhaps even disappeared entirely, there would be nothing to stop future Blights. At this rate, they’d be kicked out of every country until they were forced to declare war to maintain a fortress.

Despite what he’d heard about King Alistair, he doubted the man would be foolish enough to allow the Grey Wardens to stay as they were if they continued on like this. Perhaps they’d dissolve the way the Orlesian Wardens did and the king would find a new use for them.

Only those smart enough to flee the order would be left alive to fight Darkspawn. He was momentarily grateful that Aveline had pulled Carver and his fellows into Kirkwall when Orlais’ Wardens vanished. Free from the corrupting influence of Weisshaupt, they might be the largest gathering of sane Grey Wardens left before long.

His one consolation was that the Hero of Ferelden was occupied. The Hero could be trusted to make everything right if it were in his power. Maybe he’d find a way to save the Grey Wardens. Maybe he’d come back and work with the Inquisition. Maybe he’d find a way to stop the Calling entirely, or to stop the Blight.

Those _maybe_ s loomed heavy in Anders’ head as they continued their descent from Weisshaupt.

* * *

From their spot on the crest of a rocky hill, they could still see the fires burning in Weisshaupt. If they had not known that it was bodies under those fires, it might be a comforting sight. The fortress was a city in itself, but they knew now that it held more dead than alive.

At a distance, it was easy enough to pretend none of this had happened, and that the world was fine now. Maybe they could find a nice cabin somewhere not far from a city, settle down, let life go on without them. Maybe they’d do that regardless of what was wrong with Thedas now.

It was a nice thought, that maybe they’d be left alone.

Of course, things never worked out that way. Now, huddled together perched on rocks on the far side of their camp, they already knew it was impossible to be free. No matter where they ran, someone would find them.

For now, there was nothing to be done but wait until something else called their attention. For now, they were alone on a hilltop, shivering in the cold and watching corpses burn inside the fortress.

“Thedas is about to quake,” Hawke muttered, biting into a loaf of flatbread. He chewed and scowled out at the glowing distance. Fenris perched by one side, nibbling at a slice of apple, while Anders was silent and still at the other. “I don’t think the Inquisition can fix it. Not with this and Corypheus and the Rifts. They’ll come looking for us again, and I don’t think I’ll be able to protect either of you.”

Anders pressed himself into the man’s side and guided a thick arm over his shoulders. If someone wanted to drag him into the public, he’d be executed in some the first city square he came to. “I think I’m tired of running. If they want me, they can have me.” His they was not so much the Inquisition as the world. He was a wanted man and knew as much.

Fenris’ leg bent over Hawke’s lap and his sharp heel dug into Anders’ thigh, who yelped and squirmed away.

“After all this--” Hawke started.

“Damn foolish mage--” Fenris cut in, before trying to kick him again. Hawke caught his leg this time and trapped it under his hand.

“I don’t mean for it to sound like that!” Anders lifted his hands to placate them. “I mean that...Justice and I got what we wanted. The world has changed for mages. The Inquisitor supported them! I don’t know what things will be like when everything is said and done, but for now, mages are _free_.”

He folded forward, letting his elbows rest against his knees. “And I’ve been happy. Happier than I thought possible,” his gaze flickered between Hawke and Fenris, “With the most unexpected people. The world could end tomorrow. Before I die, I want to know that I at least took the chance to enjoy myself with the people I loved. Running forever is no living.”

Fenris slowly extracted his leg from Hawke’s grip and let it fold over his other thigh.

For a moment, they were all quiet and pensive.

Then Fenris started to butt his head against Hawke’s arm until the man finally lifted it. Fenris settled against his body and made a quiet noise. Anders squinted at him from Hawke’s other side and wondered if it had been a purr. The longer they traveled, the more he became convinced Fenris was actually an angry cat in an elf’s body.

“Settling down is...appealing,” Fenris rumbled. “There might not be another chance.” Even in Kirkwall, Fenris had never truly settled. He survived, living out of a rotting house that belonged to his former master. As far as anyone else could tell, he didn’t consider it home. The running and hiding had been hard on all of them, but for Fenris it had only been a continuation of his already chaotic life.

Hawke nodded to himself, then looked to Anders. “There’s plenty of unoccupied space in Ferelden. We could find a cabin not far from a city, let Varric know where we went. He might even visit us.”

“Enjoy life while there’s still something to be enjoyed,” Anders sighed, looking a little dreamy. A place to call home, far from Templars, far from the problems of the world. With Justice as quiet as he was lately, he might even be able to get away with it for a while. He’d settled in Kirkwall far better than Fenris ever had, but not the way Hawke did. Hawke shaped the entire city to fit him. His absence was probably missed greatly by those still around. “I’d like that.”

“We could get a mabari.”

Fenris frowned. “Get yours back from Carver. You don’t need a new one.”

“Carver needs him more than I do. No one else will listen to his bitching.”

Fenris snorted.

Anders grinned. “If we get a mabari, I want a cat too.”

“We’ll be one big happy family!” Hawke whooped and planted a kiss on both Fenris and Anders’ cheeks. His beard scratched at their skin, but he made up for it by squeezing them both close to him. “Somewhere to go again. One more time. I hope you two old men are up for it.”

Anders laughed and nodded. He let his gaze shift up to the mass of stars above them. “One more time,” he breathed.

On Hawke’s other side, a quiet rumble caught their attention. “One more time,” Fenris murmured, his lips pulled into a soft smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks. I hope you enjoyed it! Please feel free to comment or critique. 
> 
> This is the most I've written for anything, I think. I'm a little amazed I even finished it.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on my writing Tumblr at [aurenfaiewrites](http://aurenfaiewrites.tumblr.com/), or at my personal Tumblr [here](http://realvsable.tumblr.com/).


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